


Save Me Sioux Falls

by bluetoast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 11:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1548272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetoast/pseuds/bluetoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean suffers from amnesia and starts living a regular life. He'd get it too, if it weren't for those two crazy stalkers who keep trying to talk to him about demons and fighting ghosts. Sam and Cas keep trying to tell Dean the truth, but he won't believe them when they tell him he's Dean Winchester, because even the cops know that Dean Winchester died two years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prequel: Get Away

**Author's Note:**

> This story diverges from canon towards the beginning of Season 5.

If you laid on the ground and stared upwards at the sky when it snowed, you might be convinced that the stars were falling. It wasn't a hard, severe snow – but fat, fluffy somewhat out of season flakes were drifting downwards from the sky, the clouds from which they fell were lashed here and there by the branches that were desperately clinging to the last of the leaves – the woods were still and peaceful. The man blinked, the flakes brushing against his cheeks. It was odd to think that the bare earth could be so comfortable – and slowly, reluctantly, the man started to sit up, wincing at the sharp pain in his head and his side. He knew he had fallen – but not how. It could have been from a tree, from a higher elevation... or even just over his own feet. He ran his hand under his nose, sniffing. There wasn't much to indicate what had happened. 

Lying on the ground, just out of his reach was a sawed-off shotgun. He leaned over, and, taking it carefully in his hands, the man found it as foreign as the woods he was sitting in. He wasn't ready to stand up – he was still assessing things. He set the gun down gently and looked at his hands as if for the first time. The knuckles on the left hand had a slight crookedness about them – at some point in the past, he'd broken several of those fingers - if not the whole hand. His right wasn't much better, a scar ran across the thumb – it was more pink that white – not all that old. 

The man assessed the rest of himself – jeans, heavy wool socks, combat boots that looked old but the laces were new – several layers of shirts and one leather jacket. He pulled back the sleeve on his left arm and titled his head, frowning at the watch. The fall, the tumble – whatever he had taken had not broken the device. It told him that it was seven-thirty-five in the evening – and the date was November fourth. He ran a hand through his short hair and slowly rose to his feet, listening to the rest of the woods. 

“Hello?” No one responded to his call – although he did hear a faint rustle in the distance – a deer, perhaps – or some other creature. He rubbed his head – there was a sore spot on it, as if when he fell he'd hit his head hard. That was when he realized something else – something more frightening than not knowing where he was. He did not know _who_ he was. “No answers here...” He searched his pockets quickly and found only a lighter, a few rounds of shotgun shells, a small leather bag that was so tightly sealed he couldn't even begin to figure out what it was for (let alone how to open it) - and three dollars and forty-seven cents in change.

Leaning down, the man picked up the gun and started moving forward, the leaves crunching under his boots. He did not know where he was going – just away from where he had fallen. In the air, he caught the faint scent of wood burning – not the rage of a forest fire, but of a controlled blaze. The man headed in the direction that the scent seemed to come from. He would find civilization there. For some reason, the fact that his past was forgotten did not cause him to panic. Abruptly the tree line ended and he was looking down upon a massive field lying fallow – only the last errant stalks of corn, withered by weather remained – none of it reached the man's knees. The man could see two more fields stretching beyond this one – three full fields of resting earth. “These have to belong to someone...” It was getting darker and darker with each minute and the man started the journey downward, carefully making his way through a barbed wire fence and hoping for a sign of life anywhere... but there was nothing. He'd gotten to the third field when he saw massive shape that at one time might have been a tractor – but it was hard to tell. The fields had looked deceptively small from the edge of the woods. It was darker now... and the cold was starting to set in. The last fence was made of wood beams and the man carefully lifted himself over. A few yards away was a building that might have been a barn. Lowering himself back to the ground, he went to it and made his way inside. 

The lack of light in the area told him that this place was abandoned – or for sale, perhaps? He carefully made his way to a ladder that led to a rather well stocked hay-loft. _Okay, perhaps it's just storage._  
The most logical thing to do, it seemed to him, was to lay down and rest for a while. Oddly enough, a blanket was lying on the straw – making him think of children swinging on ropes from a beam somewhere far above him. He took off his jacket, balled it into a pillow and laid down on the hay pulling the blanket over him. 

He was on the edge of sleep when he felt something nudge against his face and then meow softly. “Wha...?” He opened his eyes questioningly and saw a lean cat sniffing him. A minute later, the fur-ball burrowed in the hay next to him and started to purr. “Crazy cat....” He blinked drowsily. “You can stay if you promise to kill the rats...” A minute later, the man started to snore. The cat watched the man for a moment before drifting off to sleep itself.   
While they slept, the barn around them changed – the man had not seen its ruined form in the dark. What was in truth an abandoned farm was changing into a thriving one. The hay, the man and the cat were the only things that remained the same. The artist of this feat was standing on the wooden fence, moving their arms like a conductor before an orchestra. It was unnecessary, but the artist was having fun. When they finished they lowered their arms and rocked back and forth on their feet. 

The man slept on, oblivious. He would not know it for many months – but the fall, this farm and the events that were to follow would be how Dean Winchester's life as a hunter ended. 

The artist was an angel.

And the angel's name was Michael.

The angel does not lament the loss of his true vessel – the one he currently has is not all that bad. How he got it however, is a story for another day.


	2. Prologue: This Ain't Good-Bye

Sam Winchester was glad he wasn't prone to panic attacks. Although given how this day was going, he might be proven wrong. He, Dean and Castiel had all headed into the woods of Kentucky on the trail of an acheri who was making mincemeat out of every hiker, boy scout and state trooper it could lay it's filthy hands on. They'd killed the acheri all right – but fog had rolled in and now, now Dean was missing. It'd been several hours now and Castiel had more or less marched him out of the woods and to the Impala, stating they could not continue to look for Dean in the dark. For all they knew, his brother had walked back to town – it wouldn't be the first or the last time he pulled off a stunt like that. The adrenaline rush after a hunt was strong enough sometimes Sam thought he could run a marathon in a down parka and ski boots. Now Sam had pulled the car back into the motel parking lot and with his cell phone and laptop, he'd get the GPS on Dean's cell turned on, they'd find the location and if it was out in the woods, Cas would go and get him.

Simple as that. 

It was not as simple as that. 

Oh the nice people at Arc Mobile got the tracking on Dean's phone on – but when Cas when to the location where the signal was coming from – all he found was the phone... and Dean's wallet. 

It took Sam a moment for the fact that his brother was gone to register. Dean didn't disappear, Dean wasn't the one who ran away – he was the one constant of the Winchester family. Him and the Impala, like some sort of Lone Ranger and Silver. Of course, if Dean ever heard Sam compare the sleek black Chevy to a horse, he'd be the one getting out in the cold, snow and rain to pump the gas for the guzzler for months. 

“Maybe... maybe he dropped them and didn't know it...” Sam offered, his voice shaking as Castiel sat down in one of the chairs in the motel room.

“It is... unlikely that he did. I believe.. I believe the fog that came upon us may have confused him. I did find them both near an incline... but I could not see any tracks, despite the snow...” He tilted his head to the side. “It was odd... there was hardly any charge to the phone...”

“Dean always charges that thing...” He took the wallet, frowning as he dusted some dirt off of it. “It's like this was buried for a few weeks, or something...” _Gone, gone... Dean's gone... what took Dean?_

“I do not believe anything could have taken your brother... perhaps he has just sought shelter in a cave or one of those stands we saw in the trees... I did notice some were covered."

“Deer stands?” Sam scoffed. “Those things were barely more than platforms with roofs... not to mention it's colder than all get out...” _This weather was crazy – gone, gone..._

Cas stood and sat down next to Sam, feeling uncertain. “We will find him, Sam. I do not believe he has run away or been abducted.”

Sam shook his head. “He's not been right... he's been wound up pretty tight since Jo and Ellen... since...”

“I am well aware of how your brother has been, Samuel.” He looked away from him when he said it, a faint color blotching his cheeks.

“Yeah... yeah I know.” Sam didn't want to embarrass the angel – it's not like was surprised his brother and Cas were in that kind of a relationship – merely that it'd taken so long for the two of them to hook up. “ He set a slightly shaking hand on his friend's shoulder. “I'm sorry.”

“We will find him, Samuel. I do not know where he has gone, but I do not believe he could get very far on foot and not run into another human being.”

Sam silently agreed – clearly hearing the concern in his friend's voice. “Maybe... maybe he just...” He took a deep shuddering breath. “Fuck it all...”

“Do not worry Sam – the sigils on his ribs are still intact, neither Lucifer or Michael can find him – that is at least, a blessing.”

“I hope he didn't lose his hex bag...” Sam rubbed his nose. Vanished. Vanished. Dean's disappeared....   
“Dean is more than capable of handling a demon on his own.” Cas knew his voice was trembling – this was just... _Where are you Dean, where did you go?_

“Okay....” Sam stood up and started to pace across the room. “We'll... we'll look around town for him tomorrow... someone has to have seen him. We'll check the usual places... stay in town a few days...”

“What if he has not surfaced in a few days?”

“Then... then we'll go to Bobby's....” Sam looked uncomfortable. “Uh... you're sure he's not...”

“I have checked the room he was using Samuel – he is not there, but I will stay there tonight in case he returns.”

“Yeah. Good plan.” Sam sat down and gnawed on the corner of his thumb. “I...”

“You need to eat.” Cas said in a gentle voice. “I know you may not feel like eating, but you do need to.”

“I... you're right.” Even as he spoke, Sam's stomach gave an audible rumble. “He is probably just fine...” _Disappeared – Dean's disappeared..._

That night would prove to be one the longest since the night after the Harvelle women died. Sam laid in his bed, wide awake, waiting for the sound of his brother moving into the room next door – he had made himself scarce two nights ago when he heard the unmistakable sounds of what sounded like Dean and Cas wrestling and he _knew_ where that went. He could not sleep. If this was some kind of stunt, he was going to beat his big brother a few times for making them worry like this. The last time Dean had vanished on him – he'd been tracking a jinn – but as those damn things hung out in abandoned buildings and not the woods, he wasn't worried about that. Aliens were fictional, so that too, was out of the question... Sometime between two thirty seven in the morning and five twenty – Sam fell asleep.

In the room next to his, Castiel laid fully clothed on the bed – even his shoes were still on. He found himself counting the small bumps on the popcorn ceiling above him – waiting, waiting for Dean to return. The angel cursed the fog that separated them all – though how he and Sam found one another he's not to sure. He cursed the poor weather, the cold and even himself for making sure no angel could find the Winchester brothers.

Five full days later there's still no sign of Dean.

On the sixth day, Sam and Castiel leave the small town of Rockholds, Kentucky and headed westward for Sioux Falls. It was unquestionably the most silent trip Sam had made in the Impala since the time he ran away in Flagstaff when he was twelve. That same day, in the town of Williamsburg, Kentucky, a farmer named Harry Mayfleet reported to Doctor Sheldon (University of Florida, PHD in psychiatry) that there was a man currently recovering from minor exposure on his farm – and that the man also had what seemed to be amnesia. He'd brought the young man with him – just to save the trip. All the man knew was that his first name was Dean.

Three hours later the man was diagnosed with retrograde amnesia – he could remember how to drive a car, how to speak and for some insane reason, knew how to clean and take care of any gun Harry Mayfleet put in front of him. What he couldn't remember was how he knew these things... or who he really was. The only clue to his past was the odd tattoo on his clavicle and the giant burn mark on his left arm.


	3. Chapter 3

A blank slate. That was all his life was until... well, a few months ago. Dean Smith wasn't sure how long he wandered around in the woods. He wasn't sure how he got there, or even why he was there. Let alone with a double barrel shotgun. The woods had cleared to a field that was lying fallow, although the faint scent of fertilizer and something else he couldn't quite place still hung in the air. That field had led one after another and finally, he'd come to the first building he'd seen in...well, all night. He'd taken refuge in that barn, mostly to escape the cold – and the fact that he was exhausted. Dean had fallen asleep in the hayloft into sweet oblivion. The next morning, the owner of the barn had found him when he'd come to check on his horses. Dean was grateful to that man. Most people would have just shot an intruder and asked questions later. 

All he knew was that at some point, he could remember his name. He couldn't remember much else – his mom, dad, or if he had any siblings. The farmer, Harry Mayfleet, filled in a few blanks for him. They were in Kentucky, it was just after Thanksgiving and no one had reported a family member missing. That had been four months ago. In exchange for a room and board, Dean did a number of odd jobs. The best of which, Harry declared – was that he'd managed to figure out how to fix any of the broken machinery on the farm – from the worn out pick-up truck that had probably been ten years old when Dean was born to the engine on a combine that'd Harry had been trying to rebuild but hadn't had the time. Mrs. Mayfleet, who constantly reminded Dean to call her Shannon, was also glad of his company. He suspected that had a little something to do with the fact that he'd finished a number of projects that Harry hadn't gotten around to even starting. 

The Mayfleet farm, was, for all extents and purposes, his home now. Not that he was there all that much anymore. Shortly after Christmas, Dean had gone into town with Harry. After a long conversation with the local sheriff and one slightly harrowing driver's test, he'd gotten a job with a hauling company that was based in Louisville. Strangely enough, when the sheriff had run his prints through the system in an attempt to see if he was listed, a match had come up. The trouble was, the match in question, Dean Winchester, had been dead for two years. The sheriff dismissed it as a glitch and someone else's shoddy police work – after all, Dean and Sam Winchester had been killed in an inferno that had claimed the life of an FBI agent and a good portion of Monument, Colorado's police force. 

As much as he'd been told that his memory would eventually come back to him, Dean had given it up as a lost cause. He couldn't remember a damn thing before the woods, the fields and the Mayfleet farm. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he checked his watch just as the waitress came over to the table. 

“That all for you, hun?” She was older than Dean, probably in her late fifties – definitely old enough to be his mother, so he didn't mind the endearment. “Or did you save room for dessert?”

He looked up and smiled. “I'm afraid the pie will have to be to-go today.”

Angela beamed. “Not a problem, pear, peach or cherry?”

“Pear.” He replied as she took up the empty plate that had held today's special: meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

“Be right back with that.”

Dean drained the last of his coffee, not thinking about the insanely long drive he had ahead of him for today. He was just outside Maryville, Missouri – and he had to make it all the way to Texarkana, Arkansas by tonight. He'd not had time for breakfast, after oversleeping last night just outside of Council Bluffs. After Angela came back with the pie in a Styrofoam container, he left her five dollars on the table and went to the counter to pay his tab. As he was walking out, a group of teenagers poured into the place, talking excitedly. Several of them were wearing college sweatshirts – for some reason, the maroon one a boy was wearing – bearing the name _Stanford_ – made him start for a minute.

Stanford – where was that? He shook the thought off. It was probably nothing important.   
He crossed the gravel parking lot, got into the cab of his rig – well, it's not really mine, it's the company's.... and after setting the container on the other seat and double checking the mileage, he started the large vehicle and headed down Highway 71. He was damn glad to be leaving before the snow that was in the forecast for this area was arriving. 

*

Sam Winchester parked the Impala in the gravel lot, more tired than he was hungry. He was just going to have to teach Castiel how to drive so that the search could continue on without interruptions. Maryville, Missouri was the location of Northwest Missouri State University, known to be one of the most haunted campuses in the country. Rumor had it that the state seal in the bell tower was an unmarked Devil's Gate. The two of them had been searching in vain for the past four months for Dean – who'd vanished after they'd finished off an acheri outside of Lexington, Kentucky. They'd not had a single lead in he didn't know how long. 

Castiel wasn't entirely convinced that Michael hadn't somehow found Dean – but Sam was pretty sure that if that was the case, the Apocalypse would probably have been over by now. Their attempts at getting help from law enforcement had gotten them nowhere – they didn't even believe Sam was who he said he was. A lot of the good luck, if you could call it that, was starting to backfire on the younger Winchester brother. He slumped down into a seat at the counter of the truck stop, rubbing his eyes. 

“Hello, hun... get you some coffee?”

“Please.” He pulled out his cell to call Castiel. The angel had been scouring the state of Florida for the past week. “Maybe he's found something....” 

“Sam.” He answered on the first ring. “Have you found Dean?”

“I guess that answers my question.” He replied tiredly. “No leads?”

“No.” His voice was flat. “I've checked everywhere.”

“We'll find him, Cas.” 

“Where are you? I will come join you.”

“Place called Gray's Truck Stop, Maryville, Missouri...” A moment later he head the bell of the door ring behind him and then he hung up. He was rather proud of the fact he'd gotten the angel to stop appearing right next to him and freaking people out. 

The waitress came back with the menu and set it in front of Sam. “Coffee for you too?”

“No, thank you... just... water.”

“Sure.” She answered and set the glass on the counter. “You two together, then?”

“Yes.” Castiel replied flatly, tilting his head to the side. “Why do you keep staring at Samuel?”

“He just looks familiar for some reason...” She shook her head and filled a mug with coffee and set in front of Sam. 

“Wait...” Sam reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Have you seen this man?”

Angela unfolded the piece of paper and stared at the photocopied photograph. “Yes...” She tapped the paper. 

“When?” Castiel barely kept his voice calm.

“He's here about every other week... in fact....” She looked up. “He was just here a few hours ago... is he in some kind of trouble?”

The pair exchanged looks. “In a manner of speaking, yes.” Sam answered before the angel could start in on the end of the world talk. “Do you know where he went?”

“Not sure on that... Said he had a long way to go today... but then, most truckers tell you that these days...”

“Trucker?” Sam blinked at that word. “He drives a rig?”

“Yeah.” She looked nervously from one man to the other. “He probably went south... no man leaves here in a good mood if he's got to drive north this time of the year.” She went to clear a table. When she came back, both men were gone and there were two dollars next to the untouched cup of coffee. 

*

Dean had just finished his business at the third weigh station of the day when he saw the black car in his rear-view mirror. It was an old car, probably older than the Mayfleet's truck, but in much better condition. It was also moving very fast – it had to be going well above the speed limit. The Ohio plates told him that the people inside had no idea they were racing towards a speed trap that was just outside of Columbia, where the cops were waiting to catch students bound back to college after spring break. The car stupidly whipped back into his lane, just barely out of his no-zone and Dean cursed. “You guys got a death wish?” He shook his head as the car leveled off in speed. 

From this height, he could just make out a person sitting in the backseat, who seemed to be trying to get a view into his cab. “Okay, this is getting...”

“Hello, Dean.” A voice from right next to him caused him to jump.

“What the hell?” He looked over into the passenger seat to see a man sitting there. “Where the hell did you come from?”

Castiel tilted his head to the side, studying him. “Dean, what's the matter?”

“Sonuvabitch...” He put on his hazard lights and started to slow down to pull the truck onto the median.

“How long have you been sitting there? Did you jump in here at the station?” He hated to think he was that oblivious.

The angel frowned. “Dean, we don't have time for this.” He said just as the truck came to a complete stop.

“Get out.” He snarled in response. “I don't know who you are, quite frankly, I don't care... but you can't stay here.”

“We've been looking for you, Dean. Your brother and I have been worried.”

“I don't have a brother.” He looked the man over. The trench coat, the dark hair and the very piercing blue eyes – none of it was familiar.

“What's the matter?” 

“I don't know you.” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel when he saw that the black car had also stopped and the driver was getting out. “Look, buddy – if you and your friend are in some kind of trouble, I'm sorry. I can't help you.”

The angel pulled away slightly. “You don't remember...” He shot a look at Sam, who was heading towards them. “I should have suspected..” A moment later he was outside the cab.

Dean, who'd been freaked out enough in the past few minutes to last him until Memorial Day, didn't bother to figure out how the guy got out of the vehicle without seeing him open the door. Glancing into the rear of the cab to make sure there wasn't another person back there, he started up the truck and pulled back into traffic, determined to get as much distance between him and the freaky man in the trench coat. 

*

Sam had known something was wrong when Cas got out of the truck sans Dean. The angel walked towards him, looking half shocked – and the mere fact that he could read emotion on his face told Sam that this was bad. “What happened?”

“Dean... does not remember us.”

“He's got amnesia?” He turned towards the road the rapidly disappearing truck. “That explains why he's not been looking for us.”

The angel swallowed. “I do not know what caused the injury... nor am I able to heal it.” Not for the first time, Castiel wished he still had the power to heal others.

“You don't think Zachariah or Lucifer did that to him, do you?”

“No. Lucifer would have killed him and if it was Zachariah, Dean would already be possessed by Michael.”

They started back towards the Impala. “So he has no idea... about the angels, demons, monsters...”

“Or us.” He paused to straighten a black-eyed Susan that had been trampled by someone's tire, helping the fragile bloom tilt it's face towards the sun. “He does not realize the danger he is in.” 

They got into the car. “This is...” Sam swore. “I don't suppose you know a cure for amnesia, do you?” He could set bones, remove bullets and stitch up wounds half blind – but when it came to psychological problems – the Winchester Brothers had no training. 

“No.” They pulled away from the side of the road, heading in the same direction Dean had gone. “I believe the only way to get Dean to remember who he is will be to make him remember.”

“That's.... not going to be easy.” 

“I know it's not.” Castiel shifted in his seat. 

“You're not thinking of kidnapping him, or....” He saw the angel give him a look. “Seriously?” He took a deep breath. “Okay... we'll put that down as plan C, as plan A just failed.”

“Then what is plan B?” 

“That's when I get a shot at talking to him... you know, he might just have been freaked out about you just appearing in the truck back there. Hell, anyone who doesn't know what's going on would be freaked.” Sam shook his head. 

“We've found him, Sam. That's the first and most important step. What matters now is that we can't lose him again.”

“When we stop for the night, I'll get his employee records from the trucking company – odds are, he's got a home somewhere.”

“If he is trying to live a normal life, that would be a correct assumption.”

*

Dean was still shaken from the encounter early this afternoon It'd been several hours and he was fairly certain that between another weigh station and the large construction area outside Jefferson City, he'd lost the two guys in the black Impala. As he crossed over the Arkansas state line, he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He wasn't entirely sure what was more unsettling – how the blue eyed guy had gotten into his cab, or the fact that the guy had known him. If he had family, any family – well, hell – why hadn't they come looking for him back in Kentucky?

He wasn't scheduled for some time off to go see the Mayfleets until next week. Although his time off usually turned into giving Harry a day without work. Not that Dean minded – by the time he got back there, baseball season would be started and they could use a good season from the Reds, after the disappointment of the Colts losing to the Saints in the Superbowl. Taking another swig from the over-sized thermal mug he'd filled with coffee at the last place he'd gotten gas, he made a mental note to call Harry and Shannon when he stopped for the night.  
The doctors had told him that eventually, his memory would come back to him – it couldn't be jolted back into place or hypnotized back into existence. He was assured that it would just 'happen' the same way your voice changed. A fat lot of good it did telling Dean that, as he couldn't remember what it'd been like when his voice changed. He shook his head and set the mug down. Odds were, his old life was so god-awful that he'd probably gone into those woods to get away from it – possibly to end it – and instead, walked out of those woods with no memory of it.

That was starting to sound like a blessing. His old life must have been a living hell – if he'd gone wandering into the woods with a double barrel shotgun. He couldn't have been hunting – Harry had told him – deer season was just about over when he showed up and he'd not had a shred of the regulation orange all hunters were required to wear. 

Checking his watch, he saw he had three more hours before he got to Texarkana – and more than food, Dean was looking forward to a hot shower and a good night's sleep. 

That was another thing he was grateful for – deep and dreamless sleep. Hopefully, the two people in the black car wouldn't show up and bother him again.

**

Sam fell back onto one of the beds in the motel room, groaning. He was exhausted, both physically, emotionally and mentally. The journey that had started months ago might actually be coming to an end and he knew that he had to be ready to face the next part of the ordeal with a few hours of sleep. Although at this point, the easy part seemed to be over. In a few minutes, Castiel would start searching for the truck that Dean had been driving. He couldn't say that he really was surprised at what his brother was doing. Even with amnesia, the man had no trouble driving from place to place. He probably had the best instincts of any trucker – and probably the only one who didn't wear a hat of some kind. Not that Sam was an expert on the profession – his greatest knowledge came from passing more of the long carriers than he could remember and reading _Dear Mr. Henshaw_ in third grade. He knew he had to get some rest – it was going to take a lot to get Dean, probably still as stubborn as ever, to remember who he really was. 

But a small part of Sam envied his brother in that... just for this brief respite, his brother was living with no memory of the world of monsters, demons – the end of the world. His cell phone started vibrating in his pocket and as Castiel was sitting passively on the other bed, he knew there was only one other person who'd call him. He dug the phone out and flipped it open. “Hey, Bobby.”

“Sam.” The old hunter's voice was gruff. “How's it going with the search for Dean?”

“Well, there's good news and there's bad news.”

“Please tell me you didn't find that idjit in a morgue.”

“No, he's just got amnesia.” Sam answered tiredly. “We're pretty sure he's in the same town we're in for the night.”

“What makes you so sure he's sleeping?” Bobby sounded just as worn out as Sam felt.

“He's driving a truck for a living – crazy at that sounds.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don't suppose you know a cure for amnesia, do you?”

“Wish I did.” There was a rustling noise on the other end of the line. “Where are you, anyway?”

“Texarkana. I just hope we don't have to trail him all the way to Key West... he can go a lot further on his fuel tanks than we can.” He let out a breath. 

“I'm going to look and see if I can find something that might work as a cure... I know there's something on repressed memories around here someplace.” More rustling. “I'll give you a call when I find it.”

“Sure, Bobby.”

“Good luck, Sam.”

He flipped the phone shut and turned to look at Cas. “You think you can find him again?”

“This town is not very large.” He stood up. “You should rest, Sam.”

“I will.” He set the cell on the bedside table and started to unlace his boots. “I'm going to take a quick shower and then I'll sleep.... or at least, try to.” The angel nodded and then vanished from the room to begin his search of the town. Sam finished undressing and went into the bathroom. He turned the water on and after get the temperature just-so, stepped into the spray. 

Unlike his brother, he could never stand the full hot shower that felt more like cooking your skin than getting clean. He ran his hands through his hair, the tension in his muscles slowly relaxing under the water. If Cas found Dean, then tomorrow he'd have to make a go at getting to him. What exactly he'd tell him, he had no idea. _Hi, I'm your brother, I've been looking for you and oh by the way, I need you to hurry up and remember that, because we've got to stop the Apocalypse._ He snorted at the absurdity of the idea. He'd have better luck convincing a total stranger of that than he did someone who had amnesia. 

**

Dean stood under the hot spray of the shower, letting out long breaths as the soreness in his muscles gave way. He had no idea how hard the standard water pressure was in these truck stop showers, but they were, by far and away, better than any motel he'd had to spend a night in. He tilted his head towards the spray, relishing in the feel. A hot shower was almost necessary these days – he wasn't sure what his life had been before, but apparently he'd wracked up a number injuries that caused soreness and stiffness in both legs, both arms and his back. One thing he was damn glad of was the company rule that if you were on the road for eleven hours – then you were required to be off the road for ten. 

No objections there. A hot dinner – and then seven to nine hours of sleep. The next morning, a nice breakfast – and then back to the road. It wasn't a glamorous job by any standards, but the feeling that what he was doing was important – that somewhere, someone was counting on him to show up with whatever it was he was delivering... while most people might feel resented or pressured, Dean did his job throughly and efficiently. His bosses had stated several times in the short time he'd been working for them that his deliveries were almost always early – and the one late one he had on his record was from a delay when he had to put chains on his tires to get through heavy snow in North Dakota. 

He sometimes reflected that most people would be leery of hiring someone suffering from retrograde amnesia, but while his past was blank, other things – like the ability to drive and repair a car, read, write and for some really weird reason, could clean any gun a person put in front of him was as easy as counting to ten. That always brought him to the lost memory itself. The doctors who'd looked him over told him that there was an seventy percent chance he'd get his past back – but it'd be a slow process, it wouldn't just snap back into place. He would most likely start remembering random things, places, people he knew – but without a person from his past to be an anchor and to help work them out – they'd remain a jumbled bunch of thoughts. 

He stretched his arms over his head and frowned at the burn mark on his upper arm – a burn in the shape of a human hand. That, along with a tattoo on his collarbone were the only two clues he had about his past life. The design of the ink was a mystery to him, but it wasn't all that odd. Plenty of truckers had tattoos – some more than others. Not many people had seen his 'ink' – just the Mayfleets and a few doctors. It was also listed under 'distinguishing marks' in his employee file. The burn mark, however... he had no idea what could cause such a thing – unless he had an encounter with a Terminator which seemed as likely as it being put there by an angel. He put his own hand over the scar and closed his eyes as the hot water poured down on him with the ferocity of a controlled rainstorm.

_Dean..._

The voice in his head was deep, speaking in just barely a whisper. A feeling came with it – a feeling of warmth, of comfort – of being held... and that voice... whispering something else, something in a language he didn't know. The words were strange and foreign – but yet, while he did not understand what was said, the feeling behind them was clear as the dawn. He lowered his hand and shook his head to try and clear it. Whoever had said those words... he didn't know where they were or why hadn't they come looking for him? The sheer emotion behind the speaker's voice – told him that whoever it was – loved him more than anything. _Maybe they're dead and maybe that's why I was in those woods with a gun._ He shook his head to clear it and rinsed the last of the soap away. 

Shutting the water off, he drew back the glass door and wrapped a towel around his waist. The specially designed shower rooms held not just a shower, but a sink and dressing area as well. He finished drying himself off and before he pulled his shirt on, he picked up the single steel chain that Shannon and Harry had given him. On it hung two medals – one for Saint Christopher – patron saint of truckers and the other of the Archangel Michael. When he'd asked Shannon why the second one – she stated that he must have had some kind of angel looking out for him that led him to their barn.

Covering a yawn, he decided he'd forgo dinner for now – the restaurant was twenty-four hours – sleep sounded a little better than food right now. For all he knew, those two guys in the black car, not just any black car - it's a sixty-seven Chevy Impala – could be waiting for him out there. Those guys might be weird as all get out – but there's no denying – they drive one sweet ride. 

He picked up his belongings and headed back towards the small room he was staying in for the night. He was going to his best not to think about the man in the trench coat with the really blue eyes. The second man he'd not gotten a good look at. He assumed the second was supposed to be his brother. Dean wasn't to keen on talking to either of them again. One creepy ass encounter with the guy in the trench coat was enough. _Just how did he get in and out of the truck without me seeing it? I may have amnesia, but I'm not an idiot!_

*

Castiel reflected that he'd been staring into the same glass of water so long that by rights, it should have be boiling and halfway into evaporation by now. The restaurant was nearly deserted at this time of night with only two tables and one other seat at the counter occupied. The single waitress on duty hadn't said anything to him personally in the past twenty minutes – but he could tell the woman was starting to become concerned about him. It was oddly touching, how some humans could care for complete strangers. Good Samaritans weren't as rare as many in the world would want others to believe – it was pretty obvious that Dean had encountered some. The sheer fact, however, that it was strangers, people who knew nothing about him had been the ones to find him – made him angry. The angel knew that it was wrong to feel such hatred towards the people who could have very well saved the elder Winchester brother's life, but it was hard not to. It angered him that neither him or Sam had not been the ones – that they had lost him in that maze of timber and fog. Dean had fallen somewhere out there in that darkness and was now in a darkness of another kind. It was a blessing and a curse, in a way. That meant he didn't remember that Jo and Ellen were dead – didn't know about demons, monsters, the end of the world. He didn't remember his time in Hell. 

He probably would have continued on that train of thought if the sound of a plate and fork being set in front of him caused him to return to reality. Castiel stared at the yellow cake with dark chocolate icing for a moment before looking up questioningly at the waitress. “I did not order this.”

“Jill ordered it for you.” She nodded towards the woman sitting several seats away from him at the counter. “She said it looked like you could use it.”

The angel turned his gaze towards the woman who was frowning down at her cell phone, worry evident on her face. He would have first assumed bad intentions, but as he took a second look, he could see the two gold bands on her left hand. Another good Samaritan, it seems. He turned back to the waitress. “Thank you.” He glanced back to see that the woman, Jill, had looked up. He nodded a thanks to her and picked up the fork. Having only eaten once in this vessel – a very drunk and depressed Sam had dared him to eat fruitcake on Christmas – he had no idea what to expect. Fruitcake had proven to be, in a word, confusing. He hadn't been sure if it was meant to be sweet or savory. A cake with the labeling of just 'yellow' and not a specific flavor such as lemon or butter made him slightly wary. Cutting a small chunk off from the slice, he slowly put the bite in his mouth. 

It was so far from fruitcake's taste that the flavor nearly knocked him senseless. In that first morsel, Castiel felt that he might have an inkling of where Dean's obsession with pie had come from. The mere mix of vanilla, sugar, honey and chocolate all at once was overwhelming. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the taste – it was oddly comforting as he opened them and took another bite. The third bite confirmed something else: Gabriel might just be onto something with his sweet tooth. He let himself enjoy each fork full the of confection, eating slowly. In spite of his worry, he had to admit, once he looked at the now empty plate – he did feel better.

“So you can smile.” A voice said from next to him. The woman, Jill, had left her seat and was now standing next to him.

“Thank you for the cake.” He said, not sure of what to say next.

“It was my pleasure. I'm Jill Crowe – no relation to Russell.” She slid into the seat next to him. 

“Castiel.” He replied, tilting his head to the side. He figured it was a good thing that he'd seen _Master and Commander_ , a movie Bobby was fond of, otherwise he would have no clue who Russell Crowe was. He could see what had been causing her worry earlier – and was still worrying her. Her husband was in the Marines – and was in an undisclosed location in the Middle East. 

“You don't strike me as the type of man who drives a truck – so either someone broke company rules and gave you a lift, or you're looking for someone.”

“I am looking for someone.” He reached into his trench coat pocket and pulled out the folded sheet of paper that he must have shown to every bar and motel owner in Florida and handed it to her.

The woman took it and carefully unfolded it. A spark of recognition came to her eyes. “You know Dean?”

“Do you?”

She handed the sheet back to him. “I know him well enough to never play him in pool again. Met him at a truck stop outside of Reno... cleaned me out of five hundred dollars.”

Castiel didn't react to that, other than to tilt his head to the side, frowning. “That does... sound like him.”

“He was kind of a gentleman about it the next day. He paid for my breakfast.” She shook her head. “How do you know Dean?”

“We are... good friends.” He folded the paper back up and set it into his pocket. “Although he does not... remember me.”

“Shit, I didn't know he was suffering from amnesia.. hasn't affected his pool game, I'm guessing.”

He took a sip of water and shook his head. “Have you seen him recently?”

“He's around here somewhere... I know I saw him a few hours ago when I first pulled in – he was eating dinner.” She indicated the waitress. “Moria's shift started at nine, she might have seen him too.” She cleared her throat. “Hey, Moria... you seen Dean around here tonight?”

“Which one, the one with the killer eyes or the one with the smile to match said eyes?”

“The one with the smile.” She shot a grin at Castiel, a grin that drained from her face slowly. If she didn't know better, she would think he was _angry_ that they referred to him so casually. Well, shit – if guys could talk about girls like they were prizes, then there was nothing with girls talking about guys – especially since she and Moria were both married. 

The waitress came over and refilled their water glasses. “Yeah, Dean was in here about an hour and a half ago...said he wanted to eat something before he became to tired and ended up eating twice as much breakfast in the morning.” She set the pitcher down. “I think he might be coming down with something.”

“What makes you say that?” Castiel said, concerned.

“Because for the first time in the twelve times I've seen him in here, he told me he didn't want any pie.” She picked up the empty plate. “Can I get either of you anything else?”

“No thanks, the only thing I need right now is sleep.” Jill stood up. “If I see Dean, I'll tell him you're looking for him.”

“Thank you.” He said as she walked out of the restaurant and down a corridor. He then took a sip of water and watched as Moria went to the other tables, checking on the few people still here. He hadn't really meant to convey any anger towards the two women over their familiarity with Dean. It wasn't their fault in the slightest... in fact, Castiel could clearly see the hunter's incorrigible grin that he'd get when someone talked about him. He missed that grin. Knowing that humans had privacy issues and it was unlikely anyone could tell him where Dean was sleeping, he dug into his coat pocket and dropped the single bill he had – a five dollar one – on the counter next to his water glass. He was willing to bet that Moria hadn't told anyone her own problem, that her daughter's leukemia was back. Were he still in touch with heaven, he might have found a way to help with that. But as it was, this was the best he could do for the woman whose concern about Dean was rather heartwarming.

**

Despite the memory loss, Dean still dreamed. Or rather, he was still plagued by nightmares. He wasn't sure which was worse, the visions or the lack of understanding what he saw. He'd bolted awake countless times, breathing hard, staring at his hands, expecting to see them coated in blood. The first time it had happened, it was at the Mayfleet farm. Even now, four months later, his heart still raced and his breath is still short and rapid. Tonight was no different. He sat there, head in his hands, the sheets tangled up around his legs. The place he dreamed of was hellish – for all he knew, it was Hell. Sometimes the one being tormented was him – other times he was the tormentor. But always, always there was another person with him. He was always whispering in his ear, brushing the back of his fingers against Dean's cheek like some kind of twisted lover. Something told him that there was nothing human about this man – he was terror himself. 

Slowly, he untangled the blankets from his body, his breathing erratic, barely able to suppress the scream that was caught in his throat. Shakily he stood up and went into the bathroom and turned on the cold water in the sink and set his hands on either side, leaning against it, taking a few deep, even breaths. Getting his memory back seemed to be a double edge sword – he wanted his past back – but his dreams were starting to convince him that ignorance just might be bliss. He soaked a washcloth in the near icy water and placed it on the back of his neck as he shut the water back off. He straightened up, soaking his face with the cool cloth as he shut the light out and went back towards the bed. Dean lay down and covered his eyes, listening to the near stillness of the truck stop's motel. He knew he should have been expecting another round of nightmares – he'd go a week, maybe two with deep sleep – and then, without warning – a whole week of nothing but night terrors. Tomorrow he'd finish his journey to New Orleans and then he'd head back home to Kentucky. He usually slept better at the Mayfleet Farm. Perhaps he should see a doctor about the dreams. As he drifted back off to sleep, hoping that the rest of the night would be dreamless, he heard a faint rustling sound, but dismissed it – the sound reminded him of the way wind shook a tarp over an open flatbed. 

Castiel stood in the corner of the motel room, watching Dean sleep. While he'd not really wanted to go poking around in the rooms where strangers were sleeping – the mere fact that the hunter was here, vulnerable to practically everything made him unable to leave. He didn't move until he heard the other man's even breathing, signaling deep rest. The angel knew that Sam was waiting for him, but he knew the younger Winchester would understand. At least, he hoped he would. He approached the bed slowly, not wanting to wake and scare Dean. 

When he sat down, the shift on the mattress didn't even register with the slumbering man. In the dim light cast from the flood light outside the curtained window, Castiel could see that some of the stress lines that crossed Dean's face had thinned out and become almost invisible. The weary, often-tired look was gone, giving him a slightly peaceful look. Tentatively, silently praying that he wouldn't wake, the angel set his palm against the other man's face, rubbing his thumb along his cheekbone. When he let his fingers slip behind Dean's ear and slide through his hair however, the hunter drew in a sharp breath and he nearly bolted. 

The nightmare that was threatening to overtake the sleeping man suddenly retreated and was replaced by a feeling of utter contentment and safety. Dean unknowingly nuzzled his face into the hand that was holding him. In the stillness of that motel room, there's much he isn't aware of. He isn't aware of the angel whose sitting a hands-breath away from him. He's not aware of the rumble of thunder, heralding in a rain that will last the rest of the night. He also does something that brings untold comfort to his silent companion. As Castiel is slowly withdrawing his hand from Dean's face, his fingers lingering just for a moment on the man's chin, he coughs, causing the angel to jerk back, once again ready to fly. 

Dean was on the edge of consciousness, just enough to grasp the blankets and burrow deeper into the bed. He licked his lips and muttered a single word as he sank deeper into blessed dreamless sleep. _“Cas...”_

*

Sam was actually surprised he got a decent amount of sleep. By decent, it was five mostly peaceful hours. At four in the morning, he packed his things up, got dressed and, after leaving the keys on the table where the cleaning lady would no doubt find them, he got into the Impala and headed for the truck stop that Castiel had told him Dean was staying at. His plan was to camp out in the place's restaurant, taking advantage of the stop's WiFi network and generous portions of food. Not to mention that the Winchester family had learned early on that no one made coffee as good as the people at truck stops. A few diners had come close – but those places never had the food to back the coffee up. 

It was quarter to five when he settled into a booth near the corner of the restaurant – facing the one entrance from the inside of the building to the place. Castiel had gone back to South Dakota to check on Bobby and to get the panic room ready if their plan B didn't work. He didn't exactly know how they were going to pull a kidnapping off, given that there would be people who'd report Dean missing. Of course, when he had first tried to report his brother as missing, the cops had given him a disbelieving look and informed him rather coldly that Dean Winchester was dead and had been for two years. How they failed to notice that he, Sam Winchester, had also 'died' in that fire in Colorado, he had no idea. He knew they probably couldn't shock or force Dean to just snap back to his old life – but he'd do better around his family than he would strangers. Locking his brother in the panic room wasn't exactly something Sam wanted to do – but he was slowly starting to see the necessity of doing it, if he couldn't at least get him to listen to him this morning. He remained stunned that a demon hadn't found his brother either. Then again, demons usually didn't run towards hunters, but away from them. 

He was one to talk, actually – he'd not noticed what was going on between his brother and Cas until Chuck has accidentally let the cat out of the bag. Dean had looked murderous and the look on Becky's face had been _priceless_. Although he was pretty sure he'd worn a similar expression – as if going to a hotel full of people dressed like you, pretending they were you because they thought you _were_ a fictional character wasn't fucked up enough. Dean and Cas... well, hell – best he could figure was that the two of them got together during that time that he and Dean went their separate ways after finishing off the horseman War. He'd never discussed the matter with his brother and the mere mention of the relationship in front of Cas pained the angel visibly. Sam had let the subject rest. He didn't want details and quite frankly, the mere fact the relationship existed on the level it did – or at least the level he was assuming it did – could work in their favor. 

Sam spent a full hour eating his breakfast and another thirty lingering over coffee, seriously starting to think that Dean might have just grabbed a box of doughnuts before heading out on the road. He shut his laptop with a frustrated sound as he heard someone sit down in the booth that was on the other corner. The cough the man emitted alone was enough to identify him. It was only confirmed when the waitress came over and called the man by his name with a familiarity that caused Sam's heart to almost lurch. 

“Morning Dean.” There was a clink of silverware and a glass of water being set down.

“Hey, Stella, how are you today?” 

“Other than allergies, not bad at all. Coffee and oj this morning?”

“Just the orange juice, I think I can make it to New Orleans without the help of caffeine today.”

“Not a problem. By the way, Moria says she's worried about you.”

Sam forgot looking inconspicuous and eavesdropped openly on the conversation. Cas had told him about the two women from last night. The fact that Dean hadn't had pie last night had confounded him as well – as far as he knew, his brother _never_ refused pie when it was offered. That alone was enough for him to know that something was up with his brother. 

“Moria worries about all of us... that woman worries more than a human being should be allowed to.”

“Well, Dean, you know her... telling her not to worry is like asking Mississippi River to not flood.” 

“Yeah...” There was a shuffling sound. “I'll think I'll just have the usual this morning.”

“Bacon or sausage?”

“Bacon.” 

“I'll get that right in for you.” The woman moved away and paused at Sam's table. “You want some more coffee?”

He blinked, snapping back to reality. “Uh, no thanks... just the check.” He started to put his laptop back into his bag. 

“Sure.” Stella frowned for a moment and then looked back at Dean, then back at him. “Nah...” She said under her breath, flipped through a small row of paper tabs and set one on the table before heading to the kitchen.

Sam realized there had one great big flaw in his plan – he had no idea how he was going to go over and start a conversation with Dean. It wasn't like he could just slide into the booth he was in and start up a friendly conversation. He set down one of his credit cards, making a mental note of the name – _Sam Wesson._ A moment later he heard the waitress, Stella, come back and take it while he was rifling through his bag. He seriously needed to calm down and make some actual cash with pool soon – he was just as good as Dean – and the two of them had both sworn off poker after the incident with a witch that nearly got both of them killed. If he was going to follow his brother to New Orleans, he'd have no trouble finding a game or two of pool down there. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Wesson?” Stella was back.

“Yes?” 

“Your credit card was declined.” She set it down on the table. “I tried running it through a few times – if you want to call the company, I can wait... or do you have another one?”

“Uh...” He fumbled for his wallet, not really wanting to spend the few bills that he knew were in there – and none of his other cards listed his name as Sam Wesson. 

“Here, Stella....” Dean had gotten up and set a twenty on Sam's check. 

“You don't have to...”

“Hey, it's easy to forget when bills are due when you're on the road.” Dean nodded down at the shaggy haired man. “Probably why I don't carry plastic...”

“Thanks.” Sam was dumbstruck at the change he could see in his brother. Cas had mentioned he'd looked different – and he'd been right. The word the angel has used had been changed – Sam would have used the term _healthy._ “Uh...” He stood up as Dean went back to his table. “Look, um... I'll find a way to pay you back for that...”

“It's okay.” Dean took a sip of juice, looking up at the man. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but as he'd been looking for familiar for the past four months and seeing it almost everywhere on the road, he dismissed it. “I'm sure you have a deadline to meet somewhere.”

He shifted his bag onto his shoulder. “I only have one deadline... or so I'm told.” This was starting to remind him of the time when Zachariah trapped him and Dean in that hunt without their memories to prove they were hunters. Truth was, it wasn't entirely different. “Look, I really would like to pay you back somehow.”

Dean gave him a half smile. “It's okay, buddy. It's not a problem.”

“Well, thanks again.” He turned slowly, resiting the urge to haul his big brother out of the booth and hug him for all he was worth. Sam was halfway towards New Orleans when he realizes he should have.

*

Dean was just outside of Shreveport when the memory hit him. It hit hard, it hit fast – and it was one of his nightmares. He was running through a house, running from huge black dog that had teeth and claws that would make a tiger jealous. He slammed on his hazard lights and pulled over to the side of the road as the dog attacked him – him and him alone. He couldn't think clearly, he couldn't see clearly – and the pain that was ripping through his chest was unbearable. Someone was screaming for it to stop, it was another guy screaming while a woman laughed. 

He gasped and looked down at his shirt, expecting it to be torn and coated with blood. Panting, he ran his hands through his hair, glancing over at his side-view mirror. His face was ashen and he was sweating. If was going to start having his nightmares during the day – that was dangerous. Taking a shaky breath and took several gulps of Coca-Cola from the bottle he'd picked up before he left Texarkana. He wasn't sure where the house was, or who the laughing woman was, or even what the hell had attacked him. But he could almost swear that the screaming guy – who he'd only gotten a brief look at - might just be the same guy whose breakfast he'd paid for. He swallowed hard again and grasped the medals around his neck once – for some reason, that always made him feel better. Dean set the bottle back down in it's holder, checked his mirrors, switched off the hazard lights and pulled back into traffic. 

He had work to do.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean did not stay the night in New Orleans. After dropping off his shipment, his cab had been hooked up to another trailer that needed to be in Memphis by noon the next day. Eager to close the gap between work and the Mayfleet farm, he'd scarfed down a quick lunch – and headed back north. He didn't want to run the risk of having another vision attack, or whatever it was far from home. Harry Mayfleet wasn't a good long distance driver and as for Shannon? Forget it – the furthest that woman went from the farm was St. Louis. If he had another attack and had to stop driving, he didn't want to think what would happen. Besides, Memphis was a hell of a lot closer than New Orleans to Lexington. As he headed into Mississippi, he thought back to the guy whose breakfast he'd bought. 

It wasn't like he had a problem with doing it, not in the slightest. Shannon was fond of saying that there was enough misery in this world and whatever goodwill a person could put back into the human race was welcome. The guy had seemed surprised that he'd done such a thing – maybe he hadn't had enough kindness in his life, or something. Dean rubbed the back of his neck, frowning. There'd also been something in the look he gave him – as if Sam Wesson had known him. _Sam Wesson..._ He frowned. A vague memory of a technical services man at some company came to him – he had also been named Sam Wesson. Perhaps they were one in the same – but as Dean didn't have any records of his past, other than the mismatched fingerprints from some felon who'd died in Colorado, it seemed unlikely. Wesson, while not a very common last name – Sam, on the other hand – seemed to be a somewhat popular first one. Odds were he met the Wesson fellow at the loading dock of that company or something of that nature. 

Smith, as far as Dean knew, wasn't his real last name. He'd only chosen to make it his last name because it was common enough that no one would think it was obviously made up. He was fairly certain however that Dean was his first name. He was basing it on the rather upsetting memory of a man, whom he assumed was his father, yelling at him. _Damn it, Dean, stop crying! You're eight years old! It's just a fucking scrape! Stop dragging your feet!_ He gritted his teeth at the memory, just as he had the first time he'd had it. First of all, if this man was his father, he couldn't believe that he'd used coarse language around an eight year old. Secondly, he could remember the wound – it'd not been just a scraped knee, but rather the whole right side of his right calf – he'd slid down a rocky hill and torn half the flesh on his leg off. Hell, that'd make almost _anyone_ cry – especially an eight year old kid. 

Maybe his father was just a mean asshole and he, Dean, had gotten his mother's personality instead of his father's. Something also told him that both his parents were dead – and that his mother had died when he was little. He had a feeling that his mom probably wouldn't have put up with anyone talking to her son in the manner his father had talked to him. He figured that if he could somehow remember his birthday – his driver's license stated it was January first, nineteen seventy-nine – then he might be able to find out who he was. After all, how many guys named Dean his age could there be? He'd searched around on the Internet for missing person reports and found nothing. If someone was looking for him, they weren't using mass-media sources. 

In that tangent, however, he'd scanned countless fliers in truck stops, weigh stations and in almost every Wal-Mart he went into of missing children. He'd yet to match a face with a missing child, but for some reason, he _wanted_ to find one of those missing kids almost more than anything. He wanted to help some missing child get back to their own home – because home is where they belonged. As the Mayfleets were the only home he knew, he figured that if he could help some missing child, he might be able to find his own way home. He chuckled somewhat amusedly as he pulled into a weigh station, thinking that perhaps Shannon should have given him a Saint Anthony medal instead of Saint Christopher – so that he, a lost person, could be found. With no parents to look for him – that only left friends and younger siblings... if he had any, that is.

“Afternoon.” The man in the small building said over the speaker. “Where you headed?”

“Memphis.” Dean replied. “How are you doing?”

“Not bad, not bad.” He said back to him. “What's in the tanker?”

“Molasses.” He steered the vehicle slowly onto the scale. “How's the weather look up north?”

“Rain, rain and more rain – the front goes from Jackson all the way to Springfield, Illinois.” He made a few adjustments on the computer in front of him. “Okay, you're good.”

“Thanks.” Dean said and slowly pulled away from the scales and back onto the interstate. For some reason, he half expected to see that black Impala show up in his side-view mirror. He wasn't sure what he'd do if it did. As he headed forward on his northward journey, something in his mind jolted into place – a big, black truck. He had a vision of sitting in another car and saw the massive vehicle charge right at him and sudden vanish as if it had been vaporized. It'd happened here, in Mississippi. He snorted at the sheer stupidity of the idea. Things just didn't vanish into thin air. It might just be the memory of some dream that he'd one had, but it seemed very real. He took a sip from the bottle of Coke in his console and tried to ignore it. 

But it was like when he watched those cheesy horror movies on television on nights when he wasn't up for pool. He'd watch movies about vampires and think that staking them through the heart wasn't going to do anything more than piss them off – for some reason, he was convinced that you had to cut their heads off and then burn their body. Now why the hell he thought that, he had no idea. Then again, you cut any thing's head off, it was bound to kill them. Except werewolves. Werewolves you had to shoot or stab straight in the heart with silver. At least the horror films seemed to get _that_ right. “What the hell am I thinking about this for?” He laughed at himself. “There's no such thing as vampires or werewolves.” A minute later, he shook his head. “And now I've started talking to myself, that can't be good.” He took another swig of soda and drove in silence for a while longer. Maybe he'd always talked to himself or was used to always having a companion in the car with him – so he'd had someone to talk to. “Maybe I should get a dog.” He shook his head. “Stop talking to yourself Dean, you're going to drive yourself crazier than you already are.” 

Chuckling, he hit a few buttons on the radio and found a classic rock station that was blaring a song he recognized as one of Bon Jovi's newer tunes called 'We Weren't Born to Follow'. In lieu of talking to himself, which he was pretty sure wasn't good – he started to sing along with the music in his horrible off-key voice. “This road was paved by the hopeless and the hungry...” 

_“Bon Jovi?”  
“Bon Jovi rocks – on occasion.”_

**

Castiel had patiently removed all the guns, ammunition and knives from the panic room in Bobby Singer's basement. After cleaning out the direct weapons, he had removed the other implements, like rope, leather bands and chains. With the storage lockers now empty, the room that was meant to be a safe haven from which a hunter could wage war with practically anything that walked on or below the earth, it now actually looked a little forlorn. The even whump of the ceiling fan far above him was the only sound as he calmly changed the sheets on the bed. They hadn't been changed since Sam had been locked in here the night before he killed Lilith. The angel had very few qualms about locking Dean in here and somehow make his memory snap back into place. He wasn't quite ready to go find Gabriel and beg the archangel to cure Dean. It wasn't that he doubted his elder brother would do it – but the cost for that caliber of favor would undoubtedly be high. Castiel had a feeling it would be automatic two automatic 'yeses' from Sam and Dean to Lucifer and Michael. The thought of that alone made him try and put the idea out of his mind. It also made him wish they had a plan D. 

Checking all the cabinets one last time, he went to the door, turned the lights out and headed back up the stairs. Bobby was almost exactly where he'd left him a few hours earlier, sitting behind his desk, pouring through a book - the only thing that had changed was the book he was reading and the very worried expression on the man's face. “It is ready.”

“This ain't going to work.” The hunter shook his head. “This spell on repressed memories.” He tossed down the pencil he was holding. “Not unless you can play Sherlock Holmes and Jim Bridger at the same time and find the damn rock or the exact spot where Dean fell. We need something from that precise area as a component.”

“Perhaps being among what should be familiar will be enough.” He walked towards the window and looked out at the salvage yard, the flood lights casting halos of light where the stood. He wasn't looking at them – he looked at the shadows between them, searching for any hidden danger. “As long as Sam can find where he now calls home.”

“The human mind is a complex thing, Cas.” Bobby said, wheeling himself away from his desk and into the kitchen to retrieve another bottle of beer.

“I am aware of that, Mr. Singer.” He slowly turned back towards him.

“You sure you don't have any way of curing him?”

“No.” He replied flatly and went to sit on the couch. 

“And you're also certain that this isn't one of your family member's doing?”

“Positive. If Zachariah was behind this, Dean would have already said yes to Michael.”

“Damn it.” Bobby said under his breath as he came back into the room. “Just out of curiosity, the angels couldn't resurrect Adam Milligan to make him Lucifer's vessel, could they?”

“No. If the angels needed to resurrect Adam, it would be to make him Michael's vessel. While he is John Winchester's youngest son, his is Kate Milligan's oldest and only.”

“You have any idea how insane that sounds?”

The angel gave him an odd look, tilting his head to one side. “Do you have any idea how insane the Normandy Invasion sounded to me when I first heard it?”

The hunter raised his eyebrows. “Surely you knew that was going to work.”

“I did not. Contrary to what you may believe or think, I am not omnipotent. I never doubted that the Allied forces would win the Second World War, I just did not think it would happen as swiftly as it did.”

“You call a war that was seven years long swift?” Bobby was counting all of the war, just not America's involvement.

“Compared to the wars of Europe in the earlier part of the last millennium, yes.” He picked up one of the books that was lying on the coffee table in front of him and slowly started to leaf through it.

Bobby shook his head and wheeled himself back to his desk. “You have a point. Are there any other plans that mankind has carried out that sounded crazy the first time you heard them?”

Cas found the man's attempt at sarcasm strongly reminiscent of Dean. “I believed the American Colonies were foolhardy to challenge what at the time was the most powerful empire on earth for their Independence.”

“Cas – you have a lot of doubts for someone who is supposed to be divine.”

“Doubt in concerns of the ways of men is not forbidden. Heaven does not take sides in the wars of men. If we did, then the Crusades would not have failed.”

Bobby looked down into half-empty bottle. “If we're going to keep this conversation up, I'm going to need something a hell of a lot stronger than this.”

**

As Castiel did not require sleep, he spent the night sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the six filled shot glasses in front of him like they were nothing. That's because six shots weren't nearly enough to get him mildly drunk. He doubted the whole bottle of tequila would be enough to get him even halfway there. Not that he really wanted to be anyway... He took a deep breath and knocked back all six shots and added a seventh glass. Seven shots for the seven brothers and sisters that Uriel had killed in his quest to free Lucifer. Seven siblings who had died in vain. Looking back now, he can see that it made no sense. He and all angels of his rank were given the same instruction _save the seals at any cost._ It was nearly a year ago that he had rebelled against Heaven's will. A will that he now saw most certainly didn't benefit anyone but the angels – even if things went the wrong way – they would seek haven elsewhere. They would go to a place where vessels weren't needed and they could walk on the surface of some distant planet undisturbed, letting mankind burn in their absence. 

_Love mankind more than you love Me_ – the single instruction given to angels regarding humans from God. Or so he was told – he'd never met the man, he'd received the edict from Michael eons ago. You didn't argue with your superiors – least of all an archangel. So he obeyed – and then rebelled against his family for the sake of mankind. _Isn't that just the sort of thing that testifies to loving humans?_

He looked at the upside-down glasses, resisting the urge to shatter them. Maybe this was just another human emotion he was starting to feel and this one wasn't a pleasant one. He had at best, managed to get a decent grasp on one feeling – friendship and, until Dean's disappearance, had been getting a good sense of love that was more amorous and less camaraderie. This new feeling he could name and he hated it with a passion. He hated that he knew what it was and that he was feeling it.

Jealousy.

He had known Dean was alive, but not the circumstances. He did not like them and he was having trouble with waiting to change it. Perhaps when it was over he might find the way to express the thoughts in his head – the unrelenting feeling that made him want to scream. To know that someone other than him had been there – someone else had put the hunter back up on his feet. There was someone or more than one person who was helping him heal the wounds. If it was Sam, he knew he wouldn't be this way. Sam was his brother and, being a brother himself – knew better than to mess with the bonds of siblings. The one between the two Winchesters was, without a doubt, among the strongest he'd ever seen. He couldn't think of a pair of angels who were as close as Sam and Dean. Hell, if it was Sam who'd found Dean, Cas knew that he'd also have a part in it. 

For now, all he could do was wait. Waiting was actually one of the things angels did very, very well. He could remember waiting for countless events in human history. Some he had looked forward to with all the expectation and hope that a child had for Christmas. He can remember waiting for the first Christmas, a memory now that had gone bittersweet. He closed his eyes, remembering that night. His whole garrison, led by Anna, had taken human vessels and had been in Bethlehem. He can remember coming back to Heaven with a sense of wonder that he'd never felt. If he, an Angel of the Lord had been nearly overcome, it was nothing short of miraculous that those shepherds he and a few other angels had visited were able to walk. It was a sense of change in mankind he would not feel again for nearly fifteen hundred years when Columbus sailed to the Americas and unknowingly set this whole plan now unfolding in human history into motion. Waiting was a natural part of being an angel – and also one of the hardest.

He looked back down at the shot glasses and carefully stacked them together and took them over to the sink, with the tiniest fraction of a stagger. After placing them down slowly, he turned the faucet on and when the water was hot, he started to clean them as well as the rest of the dishes stacked in the sink. It was one of the few tasks he could do for Bobby. It also helped pass the time.

**

Sam both lauded and lamented the lack of smoking in bars. It was rather pleasant not to reek of smoke for hours after being in said bar. Not to mention that even when it'd been bellow freezing Dean had insisted on driving with at least two of the windows down so the scent wouldn't become ingrained in the Impala's leather interior. The real problem was that now you found out just out how many other unpleasant smells that smoke had been covering up. Whereas once the places he and his brother had frequented had just reeked with a myriad of cigarettes and cigars and the occasional pipe, now there was the sickly sweet smell of cheap perfume, even cheaper cologne, beer and more often than not, body odor that was just short of nauseating. Perhaps to the normal person these scents would make one sick, but as he was familiar with the reek of blood, decay and burning flesh – he had a higher tolerance for bad smelling people. At least none of them smelled like sulfur or death – quite possibly the two worst scents in existence... and the last two you wanted to encounter in combination with each other.

For tonight, however, the worst smell Sam had to deal with was the man standing across from him – he reeked of some imitation aftershave. What made it more funny than sick was the fact that the man needed to shave – or make up his mind if he was going to have a goatee or a full face beard. Right now the guy looked like a Civil War movie reject – he looked a cross between Jeff Daniels in _Gettysburg_ and Chuck Shurley. Doing his best not to laugh and ignore the absurdity of it, he turned his attention back to the pool game he was losing on purpose. He'd picked this bar in New Orleans purely for the classic metal rock covers by the band in the corner that, if they played any louder, they might be able to mask the stench of bad perfume with sound. Sam had a feeling that a little thing like amnesia wouldn't change his brother's taste in music. He didn't count the time that Zachariah had screwed with their heads in order to make them realize they were meant to be hunters and not nine-to-five workers. 

Right now, however, he turned his full attention to the game as his opponent sank the eight ball in the corner pocket. This marked the third game he'd lost to the guy, the pot of five hundred dollars jammed underneath an upside-down pilsner glass. It was time to stop playing the bungling novice who'd just 'played a few games in college' and start playing the pool shark he was. He'd played his first game of pool at the age of five – and at the age of eleven, won fifty dollars in a game against a college student at some tavern in Idaho whose name he didn't remember. The only real problem was that all he had left in terms of cash was twenty dollars – that already belonged to the bar for the few beers he'd drunk. 

“You up for another round?” The lean man folded his arms, grinning at him.

“Sure...” He leaned against the table, idly staring at the cash. “All or nothing, right?”

“What do you have left, pretty boy?” He said in a silky tone. “You've already put five hundred down.”

Sam scoffed. “Oh, not much....” It was true he only had twenty dollars – but it was a ten dollar bill wrapped around ten ones. “Just one grand.” He set the stack down with the rest of the cash. He knew the guy would be able to match the sum without a problem – the guy was wearing five hundred dollar jeans and a three hundred dollar shirt. “Though I would like to keep a little to pay my tab, if possible.” The guy was probably slumming in this bar looking for an easy lay, if anything. 

“I can cough up a thousand dollars, no sweat.” He set his hands on the end of his pool cue and rested his chin on them, looking over the table, as if the money was already laying out in front of him. “That's chump change.” He muttered under his breath. “Unless you want to put that car of yours on the table.”

Sam was glad at that moment that Dean wasn't with him. “The car is not negotiable.” He frowned. “Set 'em up.” He moved to the far end of the table. The way the guy brought up the Impala made him slightly wary.

“You're on.” He chuckled as he put the money into the other side of the table, releasing the game balls and started to arrange them in the triangle. “What year's that Impala?”

“Sixty-seven.” He was going from wary to suspicious – but he knew he couldn't let this guy's talk throw off his game.

“It's a pretty sweet ride.” He said as he sent the cue ball down to Sam and pulled the rack away.

“Yeah, it is.” Sam replied as he lined up his shot and took it, sending the cue ball slamming into the other fifteen, scattering them across the table and sending six of them into the pockets. “I'd appreciate if you'd leave the car out of our conversation.” He straightened up and gave his opponent the barest hint of a triumphant smile. 

*

The game was over shortly after that and Sam hadn't wanted to hang around in the neighborhood or the bar afterwards. After winning a pot of fifteen hundred dollars in cash, it was best to get while the getting was good. The way the guy had kept wanting to talk about the Impala had started to make him uncomfortable. With Heaven only knew what and who was after the Winchester brothers, it was a good idea to take off before things got to far. He also drove back north, heading to Shreveport for the night. The more distance he put between himself and New Orleans, the better. As he settled into his hotel room for the night, he reflected that the guy in the bar whose ass he had thoroughly kicked might just be dumb enough to come after him to get his money back – or worse, steal the car. Granted, the last guy who'd come after the Winchesters do to just that had brought along a friend and they had both gotten their asses handed to them on a plate.

Groaning, he fell back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The sheer thought of kidnapping Dean was starting to weigh in on him. How he and Cas would actually carry it out and not let anyone get hurt – that seemed to be the hardest part... Of course, if they didn't get his brother back, the sheer death toll of the Apocalypse would dwarf the five, at most ten people who might get hurt now.   
He set the clock radio on the table that had probably been new in year he was born to for four am – he'd head back to Bobby's place in Sioux Falls. He had a feeling that once they found the place Dean was currently calling home, Cas could pick up his brother up with minimal difficulty. After seeing the angel take on a band of bikers at a bar in San Antonio back in February, his brother shouldn't pose any problem whatsoever. 

**

Just on the inside edge of sleeping, Dean had thrown off the covers the bed in a motel room outside of Memphis. Winter, while nearly a month over, had yet to completely yield to the warmth of spring – a chill still hung in the air that had caused him to turn the heat on when he'd first gotten into the room. But it was not the blasting furnace that had caused his legs to kick the blankets into a tangled mess at the foot of the bed. Lying spread eagled, breathing hard, he was currently lost in the most intense dream he could ever recall having. He was just aware of consciousness enough to wonder if it was merely a dream or another of his lost memories. He would actually take it either way – but he would later reflect that he hoped it was the later.

Someone was holding him – their front to his back. They were both naked and his head was thrown back over the other person's shoulder. A deep voice was whispering in his ear – it was the same unfamiliar language he'd heard in other dreams. But the cadence and timbre of the words were absolutely clear. A hand brushed across his face and slid into his hair. _“Dean.”_ His lover was teasing him – he knew that – and he loved it.

His own voice was raspy with raw desire and he struggled to breathe evenly. _“Cas... please...”_ Apparently please was in fact the magic word - for a moment later, he was flat on his back and his companion was kissing him, hard. Despite the fact that he was bigger, the person above him had no trouble holding him down – and for the feel of his hands and lips alone, Dean would surrender himself to this man's mercy without question. It was blinding, it was intense – and when he felt those hands lift his hips from the bed – it all seemed to increase tenfold. He didn't want the dream to end – he wanted it to keep going. The other man was speaking in that strange language again – and one word kept getting repeated over and over. It was a word that wasn't a part of that alien tongue, but his own name.

There was only one thing about this whole dream he found agonizing. He could feel every contour of the man's body, every muscle – every inch of skin under his hands as if it was real and not all in his mind. This wasn't upsetting – far from it. He could feel his lover touching him everywhere – both outside and in – but he could not see his face. Their foreheads were resting against one another and he knew his eyes were open – but the face... the face wasn't there. He wanted something – any small detail would help – his hair color, his eye color _– anything –_ all he was aware of was the faint stubble on the man's cheeks and his soft lips.

The caresses turned less passionate and more comforting. They were now sated and snuggled together under the covers. The person was gently brushing his forehead with his thumb and Dean had the notion he was smiling down at him. He was about to speak when a blaring horn sounded – ending his sleep and his dream.

The first thing he did was curse, rather loudly, not caring if the people in the next room heard him or not. Dean sat up and ran his hands through his hair. He hadn't had any dreams like this one before – the few he'd had all involved an endless road or that horrifying place that, the more he thought on it, had to be Hell – for there was no place on Earth that it could be. Unless he spent time in his youth doing LSD in Death Valley. He didn't want to think he was gay – or bi, or what – the only reason he'd not looked at any women in the past few months was the lingering possibility that he might be married – and just lost his wedding ring. Of course, he would hope that if he _was_ married his wife would have looked for him. But that line of thought always brought him full circle back to the woods he came out of and the shotgun. Something had happened out there in that woody copse and whatever it was, it had sent him spiraling into this life he now lived. 

Of course, should the dream ever repeat itself, Dean wouldn't object – he just hoped that a horn wouldn't wake him again. He gritted his teeth as his cock jerked, letting him know that while he had finished in slumber-land – here, in reality, he was still hard. He reached down and pulled the blankets over him, feeling the need to keep covered even though he was alone in the room. He bent his legs and removed his sleep pants and boxers, tossing them to the floor. The sheets were scratchy against his skin, but he didn't care – it wasn't the first time he'd been naked in a hotel bed – and it was highly unlikely it'd be the last. Taking his cock in his hand, he closed his eyes and started to stroke up and down his length. As he lay there, he once again wished he had a face to go with the dream he'd had. All he had was a name and a voice – and for some reason, that was enough. Hell, the voice alone made him replete with desire. He could still hear it, whispering the words he did not know in his ear as he pumped himself harder and faster. With a strangled gasp, Dean came. As he lay there, listening to his own harsh breathing, he heard the voice say something in his mind's ear again – and found himself understanding the single phrase in the language he couldn't name. 

_I love you._

*

Castiel sat on the floor of the room Dean used at Bobby's house. He was naked save for his pants and Dean's amulet. His head slowly tilted forward, his shoulders slumped. The sigils he'd carved into the Winchester's rib cages kept him and all angels from finding them in reality – but for the first time in four months, he'd found Dean in the dream world. It hadn't been easy and it was taxing his already rapidly depleting grace, but it had been worth it. True, he still had no idea where the hunter was sleeping tonight – but the memory he'd shared with him – he hoped it let the man sleep easier afterwards. The angel wasn't sure what the future of all this would be, even if they could even make Dean remember his past.

Glad that he was alone in the upstairs of the house, he leaned forward onto his hands, breathing hard. Squinting in the darkness, he could make out the door and see that he had locked it when he came in here. The urge to crawl into the bed behind him was strong – but, just like the other times he'd sat here, without either Sam or Bobby ever knowing, he held himself back. The last thing he wanted was for the sheets to become dirty – requiring someone, most likely him, to wash them. Instead, he rose up onto his knees and pulled the pillow from the head of the bed down to where he was. This was something he _hadn't_ done before, but the ache in his groin and the memory shared was to fresh in his mind. 

It was rather a surprise to him, that he'd gone four whole months keeping this sort of thing repressed. As he became more and more human, Cas had started to notice things that before he'd never given a second thought to. Time, however, was something he still never took notice of until he stopped and looked around for a few moments. It had been that way back in October, the last time he'd stopped to take stock. Dean had still been with him then and he'd remarked that there were Christmas decorations everywhere and asked, rather stupidly, if it was December already. Dean had chuckled gently, kissed him on the forehead, both cheeks and on the lips – and then told him that stores tended to start cramming the winter holidays down the throats of consumers as soon as they'd cleared out the back-to-school things. He'd not understood the motivation or the point of such a thing, the holiday would come regardless of when they started to inform mankind. He was about to mention it when Dean had smiled at him – that playful, teasing smile that he once hated and now loved - and the rest of the conversation had gone out the window. While he didn't remember the rest of the conversation – Cas was aware that that had been the sixth time they'd slept together.

He quietly removed the rest of his clothing, adding his pants and boxers to the neatly folded stack that was on the floor next to him. Turning back to the bed, he leaned forward, burying his head in the pillow that probably was new fifteen years ago, at least. He didn't care about that – it was the scent clinging to it that mattered. Dean hadn't slept in this bed in nearly five months – but the blankets, the sheets, the pillow – it all smelled of Dean. With his senses being overwhelmed by the intoxicating aroma he'd not let himself indulge in until now. With one hand clutching the bed-covers and wrapping the other around his cock, he let the feeling settle over him. As he knelt there, pumping himself, the pillow muffling his soft moans, Castiel let his mind go to where it wanted – and somehow, with the fragrance that was thick in his nostrils, the memory of what he'd shared with Dean via the world of dreams and the memory of the times it hadn't been a dream, the angel can almost – _almost_ – forget he's alone in the room. Minutes later, when his world explodes around him in a haze of pleasure, his free hand grasps outward, seeking someone who isn't there.

He heard himself whimper once before he slumped to the floor, his head landing on his pile of clothes – hating the fact that despite how good he should feel – he feels very much alone. 

**

Sam settled into a booth at the truck stop outside of Shreveport. It was a fourteen hour drive back to Sioux Falls and he was determined to get back to South Dakota today. A decent breakfast and he'd be off. To tell the truth, he'd had no idea that the places that truckers frequented had such much good food at such Winchester-friendly prices. He guessed that was just another way of proving that you learned something new every day. Though it seemed to be a discovery made far to late – when he and Cas got Dean back, they probably couldn't frequent them often, if at all. His brother was the type of person that probably everyone in this business knew by now. For all his abrasive behavior, Dean had the ability to make people like him – or hate his guts. Sam also had that kind of personality – though he tended more towards the likability factor rather than the other way around. 

“Good mornin.” The waitress said as she set a glass of water down and some silverware rolled up in a paper napkin. “How are we today?”

“Not bad.” Sam said. 

“What can I get you to drink?” She handed him the menu.

“Coffee, please.”

“Not a problem. You need a few minutes?”

“Yeah.” He said, picking up the menu and flipping it over to the daily specials. 

“Okay.” She scribbled down the drink order and left.

With his head resting in his hand, Sam felt like he was almost in a bad repeat of yesterday morning – only this time, Dean wouldn't be appearing in the next booth. Experience had taught him that Winchesters were never that lucky. After scanning over the menu and when the waitress brought his coffee, he ordered eggs and bacon. When she left, he immediately flipped open his laptop, relieved he'd once again been seated someplace where his back was to a wall and he could scan the rest of the room. Cas had told him the name he recalled seeing on the side of Dean's rig – the name of the company his brother was now working for. It didn't take him long to find the website and he knew it wouldn't take him very long to hack into the employee database and find the place Dean was now calling home. By the time his breakfast had been set on the table and he'd finished half of it, he'd made the progress he needed to – the only trouble was, there were two Deans working for Larkspur Hauling – and they were both the same age. Dean Smith had a birthday listed as January first and Dean Morgan had a birthday of May seventeenth. This, he reflected wouldn't be to big of a problem if they had pictures listed in their database. But it didn't help that both men were listed as being the same height, nearly the same weight, single, each with one tattoo, one was listed as having hazel eyes and the other as green and they had the same hair color. Not to mention that they both had started working for Larkspur in January. The only difference between them, at least according to the computer was their birth date and place of residence. Smith called Williamsburg, Kentucky home and Morgan resided in a town called Corbin in the same state. “Shit.” He said softly into his coffee mug. He was hoping that one of them lived in a state other than the one where he'd been separated from his brother, thus eliminating him. After taking a quick look on Mapquest, Sam nearly gagged on his coffee. The towns neighbored each other – and both were about equal distance of where he and Cas had lost Dean. 

He finished eating his breakfast and drained the last of his water. It was a fourteen hour drive to Sioux Falls from here – and he wanted to be back there as soon as possible. He shut his laptop and dropped a ten dollar bill on the tab the waitress had left when the place had started to fill up with customers. As he made his way out of the truck stop and back to the Impala, he reflected that at least one Dean didn't live in Texas and the other in Maine. That would just make matters worse. He'd take a closer look at the records when he got to Bobby's house. Maybe, just maybe – one of the two men had something that would mark him as his brother. _Because there's no way both of them have a huge burn scar in the shape of a hand on their arms._

As he sat down in the driver's seat, he checked his watch – it was just after eight. In that moment, he made the split decision not to head back to South Dakota. He was going to go to Kentucky and at least find out which of the two Deans was his brother – and this time when he found him, he had to tell him the truth. He started up the car and pulled away from the truck stop, heading for Interstate Twenty which would take him east, instead of Twenty-Nine, which would take him north. He'd call Bobby when he stopped for gas in a few hours. He was going to find his brother first thing tomorrow morning – and find a way to get him back in the game. Sam had a feeling that despite the seriousness of the situation, his father was laughing in the great beyond at the irony of him being the one who needed to get Dean back up to speed – instead of the other way around.

**

Dean was relieved to be home. Thankfully, he had not had another one of the 'memory attacks' as he dubbed them – at least, not while he was awake. As he slumped back onto his bed at the Mayfleet farmhouse, the faint smell of lavender wafted around him. He had driven here to Williamsburg straight from Memphis first thing this morning. As he was effectively 'off duty' for the next three days – after which he'd drive the long trek to San Francisco. He'd only gotten six hours of sleep last night and with the time off, he was looking forward to a long night's sleep tonight. It was always nice to come back to the farm. Shannon had been thrilled, as always, at his safe return. The woman worried about him like he was her own son. How a person could be so kind towards a total stranger that had first seemed a mystery had started to rub off on him and he was rather proud of it. 

The wonderful smell of dinner was winding it's way through the house, a glorious mixture of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy. He had three whole days before he'd leave again and he intended to enjoy every last minute. He also knew that there were a few things around the house that needed taken care of. Door hinges that needed to be oiled, windows that needed to be washed. Shannon wanted to air the house out after the long winter and quite frankly, Dean didn't want a sixty-two year old woman doing that all by herself. It'd be grueling, cumbersome and monotonous, but at the end, they'd have something to show for it. And he really didn't care about collapsing into bed each night worn out from the work. He had come to the conclusion that helping people, which came very naturally to him, must be a part of his personality, given how fast he'd started doing it. This was actually a source of great comfort to him, reassuring him that he wasn't really an asshole. 

He closed his eyes, intending to just rest for a few minutes and let the fatigue of the road fade a little. When he did, his thoughts instantly drifted to his past. Just like all the other times he did this, he saw nothing but two lane back-top. The destination and direction were unknown. He knew he was the one driving and the car was much lower to the ground than a rig. He was also aware that there was someone else in the car with him. The road looked like nothing more than a ribbon, winding its way around curves and over small creeks and rivers. They came to a wide expanse of farmland, with soybeans growing on either side of the road, the fields stretching out to an almost unfathomable distance. It was almost tranquil.

Dean pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and more details became clear. The car's interior – it was black – just like the car itself was black. There was a smell of salt and Armor-All upholstery cleaner. The heat was on in the car and an odd rattling sound came from the dashboard, like something was stuck just below it.   
_  
“Dean?” The voice next to him said. “Dean you haven't said a word since we left.”  
“Don't feel like talking Sammy.” He replied. _

Lowering his hands and opening his eyes, something clicked into place in his mind. He had a brother – a younger brother. He had a brother named Sam. Groaning softly, he rolled over on the bed and put his feet on the floor. The fact that he had a brother should floor him, that he could remember a family member – but at the same time it made his stomach turn slightly sour.

_If I have a brother, then where the hell is he?_

He came down into the kitchen and slowly started setting the table, not wanting to bring up his newfound knowledge just yet. He was processing the information in his mind, trying to figure out why his brother wasn't looking for him. 

“Dean, we're going to be four for dinner tonight.” Shannon said, her voice absolutely full of a joy he'd never heard in it before. “Luke is finally coming home for a visit.”

He paused as he folded a napkin, looking up. Luke was the Mayfleet's only son – he lived in Paris, or somewhere in Europe. “I didn't know that.” He frowned. “If I'd know that I'd have...”

“Oh, hush.” She said in reply, stirring a pot on the stove. “It's not like there's ever been such a thing as advanced warning with him.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “He showed up three weeks before his due date when he was born... at least this time he called us before he left on the flight across the Atlantic rather than the last time he came home and called us from New York City.”

He managed a nod and went to retrieve another plate from the cupboard. “What does he do in Paris? I don't remember if you told me or not.”

“He works for some clothing designer who thinks wool pants should cost seven hundred dollars just because it's got his name on it.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I'm willing to bet the same sheep that grew the wool for those pants are exactly the same as the ones who produce the wool in the blend yarn I get at JoAnne's Fabrics for six dollars a skein.”

Dean snorted. “Maybe the sheep for the pants all have professional masseurs who also hand-feed them the grass they eat.”

Shannon threw back her head and laughed. “It's quite possible. I'm surprised you didn't notice Harry was gone when you got here this afternoon.”

“I did... I thought he went into town.”

“No, Luke's flying into Knoxville... I wish he would come home more often... but work tends to keep him away from us.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” He went and got the water glasses from another cupboard. “You also have a daughter, right?”

“Yes, Lexi and her husband live over in Owensbourgh... since their kids got a little older, they've stopped coming for holidays... can't really hide Christmas gifts in the same minivan you're driving. Not to mention there's enough rotten people in the world that if you left a huge pile of gifts under the tree, there's no guarantee they'd be there when you got back.” She shook her head as they both heard a car drive up next to the house. “That will be them.” She wiped her hands off on a dishtowel. “I should warn you, Luke's a little... different.”

Dean, who'd seen pictures of both of the Mayfleet's children and grandchildren tried to imagine what Shannon meant by different. The moment Luke and Harry walked in the door, it was pretty damn obvious what made her say that about her son. If he'd met Luke Mayfleet anywhere on the road, he'd never guess he came from a town in Kentucky that probably barely rated a dot on an atlas. He also figured this was the sort of man who wouldn't be caught dead in a truck stop. He had an aura of sophistication that seemed very out of place in this house. Of course, when he came into the kitchen, Luke didn't even glance at him, he went straight for his mother and caught her in a bear hug.

“Mom, I swear, I've been smelling that fried chicken and following my nose ever since I switched planes in Newark.” He kissed her cheeks. “I'm surprised the pilots and the rest of the passengers weren't following dad and I back here.”

“Glad to see you're palate hasn't been soiled by all that fancy Parisian food.” She gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Did you have a safe flight?”

“It was fine, save for a bit of turbulence over the ocean.” He went back to the laundry room to hang up his jacket. 

“I've got a few things to take care of out in the barn.” Harry said, giving a sideways glance at Dean. “I won't be long.”

“Oh, that's fine. Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.” She replied as Luke came back, carrying his suitcase. “Luke, this is Dean. We've told you about him.”

Luke set his bag down and shook Dean's hand. “Of course – dad wouldn't shut up about you on the ride here.”

Dean nodded. “Hey.” For some reason, when he took the man's hand, he felt a slight twinge of guilt – rather like the one he'd had when Jill Crowe had bought him that piece of pie outside of Reno – before he found out she was married. Then he had realized her intentions were made in the hopes of friendship, not in something else. But there was something he found unsettling in the glance that Luke Mayfleet had given him. He also wasn't entirely sure if that was much of a problem or not.

**

Sam tossed his duffel bag onto the bed in the motel room. It was late – the drive had been nearly eleven hours long. He quickly dug the smaller bag that held his toiletries and a clean pair of boxers from the duffel. He was going to get cleaned up, call Castiel and then get some sleep. The town was small enough that he half expected the angel would find him before dawn. If he wasn't in town – if he wasn't Dean Smith or if Dean Smith was out on the road, they were going to find him. Even if it meant getting back into the Impala and driving all the way to Anchorage, Alaska. He even made the mental note to himself to make sure to stick the I-Pod jack back in the glove compartment so his brother wouldn't see it and freak out about him 'douching up' his baby.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean woke up the next morning before sunrise. There'd been no dreams to haunt or delight him this past night – and he found, in spite of that, a restful night's sleep was welcome. He lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the world outside slowly coming to life. The Mayfleet Farm wasn't a big place, by any standard. The majority of the crop was barley, most of which was sent to the Jack Daniel's distillery over in Bourbon County. He was used to waking up at this time and while normally he would just roll out of bed and get into the shower, but for now, he lay there, enjoying being able to enjoy this time before he had to start his day. He heard the faint buzzing of the alarm clock down the hall and a moment later there was water running. Yawning, he rubbed his face and figured that since he was awake, he might as well get up and help Harry out with the early morning chores – something about Luke made Dean think that the man wasn't used to heavy manual labor. 

When he got downstairs, he found that Harry had started a pot of coffee and was patiently peeling a grapefruit at the kitchen table. “You're up pretty early.” 

“Not really.” He took an orange from the fruit bowl and grabbed another pairing knife from the drawer. “I figured I may as well get up and see what I can help you with.”

“Lot of things to get cleaned up today – the state health board comes by in two days – so everything has to be pretty close to spotless.”

“Sounds like a major pain in the ass.”

“It can be.” He chuckled. “If you really want to help me out this morning, after Shannon gets up, could you mow the lawn around the house? All the rain we've had lately, I've not had time to do it and if it gets any longer, I'm going to have to borrow the neighbor's hay-baler to cut it.”

Dean snickered. “I don't think it's as bad as that.” 

“True, it's been worse.” He got up and poured two mugs of coffee. “How have you been lately, Dean? Any progress on the memory?”

He split the orange open before replying. “Not much. I can remember I have a brother named Sam... he's younger than me.” He started breaking the fruit into segments. “But for some reason, I think he's taller than I am.”

“Interesting.” Harry set a mug down in front of him. “Well, it will come back eventually, the doctors say so.”

“I know.” He gave the man a small grin. He didn't want to bring up Cas, whoever he was – he wanted to keep that to himself for now. He didn't know if he'd ever want to share that person with anyone. “I also had this guy get into the cab a couple of days ago... no idea how he got there. He said he knew me.”

“You sure you weren't hallucinating again?” Harry said, taking a drink of coffee. 

“Possibly.” There had been a week in December when he had sworn he was seeing monsters – actual _monsters_ of the horror-movie type on every corner. The doctors changed his medication shortly after that and the problem had gone away. “Though I was off my meds at the time.”

“You're not supposed to go off those things cold turkey Dean.” Harry admonished. “The side effects are pretty bad.”

“I know.” But given that he's fairly certain the lack of drugs is what gave him the awesome dream of two nights ago, he might just flush every last one of them down the toilet if he wasn't worried that he might actually change his mind about it sometime. Knowing his luck, if he did that, he'd want the drugs back at two in the morning when there isn't any way to get a new prescription. “It'd be nice if they'd give you an estimated time of memory return...” He sighed.

“I know, son.” Harry said, pulling off a segment of grapefruit. “What do you say you and I head outside, see if we can get half of this to-do list done before a proper breakfast?”

“Sounds good.” He drained the last of his coffee and cleaned up the fruit peels before refilling his mug and following the man outside. 

The sun had made just enough of an appearance to bathe the yard in a shadowy light that was tinged with yellow. There was a faint chill in the air that would be gone by noon, giving way to what promised to be a beautiful spring day. The two of them got to work. Harry sent Dean out on the four-wheeler to check the fences around the property, sending him out with the weed eater as well, as the grassy area along the road was becoming overwhelmed. Harry was going to tend to the small amount of livestock the farm had – three cows (which were kept for dairy purposes) five horses (Harry claimed he kept them around in case gasoline ever ran out – that and the grandkids would be heartbroken if they found them gone) – there was also one pig and a handful of chickens that weren't destined for anything but the Mayfleet's dinner table. There were also two dogs and Dean was never sure how many cats there were – he was just glad they didn't make him sneeze – and the only one who showed him any attention was Bluebeard. Actually, Dean sometimes thought it was crazy about how much the scrawny cat followed him around. 

Just as he expected, when he put the ATV in park and got off to start on the patch of ground near the highway, the cat was trotting along the drive towards him. “I don't have any food, if that's what you're looking for.” He said as he picked the weed-eater up from the wooden box that was attached to the back of the vehicle. He shook his head as the cat jumped up onto the now vacant seat and watched him. “Crazy cat.” Dean scratched the animal once on the back of the head before setting about to his task. He did remember the headphones and goggles this time – the last time he'd forgotten the former and had been half deaf the rest of the day. 

Harry hadn't been kidding about the weeds starting to look scary. Nearly all of them were knee-high on Dean. “Damn.” He muttered as he revved the small engine and started to work. Thankfully, in the cool of the morning, it was easy work – the damp wasn't so bad as it could have been. By the time the sun has made a full appearance in the sky, the weeds are all mowed down and the posts of the barbed wire fence that spanned the length of the farm are visible again. His stomach grumbling, Dean started to put things back in the wooden box, knowing he'll be back down here after breakfast, raking the refuse up. He snorted as the cat jumped into the back of the ATV and then looked up at him with a look that seemed far to intelligent. He shook his head as he heard a car door shut behind him. He hadn't heard a car approaching, but that could have been due to the motor of the weed-eater and the headphones. He slowly turned and swallowed. 

It was the black Impala – well, maybe not _the_ black Impala, but how many of those where there in the country in that good of condition? Standing outside of it wasn't the man in the trench coat, but a younger man with shaggy brown hair and a worn green jacket. Dean blinked once, staring at the man, trying to decide who this was and what exactly he was doing here. “You lost buddy?” That seemed like the most logical question – he wasn't dressed like a traveling salesmen, or someone going door to door (or would it be farm to farm?) for a politician. Then he recognized him. “You didn't come all this way just to pay back twenty bucks, did you?” 

Sam simply stared for a full minute. Dean Smith – was his brother. He wasn't sure if he should charge across the road and hug him until sunset or try to start explaining what was going on. “It's... uh, no...” He swallowed and pushed himself away from the Impala, heading across the drive towards his brother. “Um...”

“I didn't think so.” Dean frowned. “Sam, right?”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling a million sorts of awkward. “Uh... this is going to sound a little weird...” He took a deep breath, deciding he'd say it really fast and get it out of the way. “Uh, my name isn't Sam Wesson, it's Sam Winchester and you're name isn't Dean Smith, it's Dean Winchester and I'm sorry that I didn't do a good enough job of looking for you when you vanished four months ago.” 

Dean stared at him. “Uh, I hate to break it to you, but Sam and Dean Winchester died in a fire in Colorado a few years ago.”

“No, no we didn't... we got out of Colorado before the fire. But they still had us listed as being in custody, so we were assumed dead.” He frowned. “How... how'd you know about that fire?”

“Look, I may have amnesia, but I'm not stupid. They ran my prints when I showed up here and for some reason mine matched up with a dead guy's. It was a computer glitch – I don't know who I am, but I'm obviously not someone who died three years ago.”

“No...” Sam took a step towards him, holding his hands out. “We're not dead... we're just listed as dead. See, there was this FBI agent, his name was Hendrickson, he was after us because he thought we'd killed some people. You specifically – but it wasn't you, it was a shape-shifter who made himself look like you. We were cornered in that station by a bunch of demons sent after us by their leader, this demon named Lilith... but we exorcised all the demons and Hendrickson let us go, saying he'd file a report saying we died in custody.” He took a breath – this was actually easy now that he'd started. “But after we got away, Lilith showed up at the station and killed everyone there because we weren't there.” He then went on to tell Dean why Lilith had been after them – and was about to start on how Castiel got him out of Hell when his brother raised his hand to silence him. “Yeah?”

“Uh, Sam... Winchester, Wesson... whatever it is...” He shook his head. “Uh, the doctors prescribed me these anti-psychotic drugs about three months ago because I was having horrible nightmares...I'm thinking you might need them more than I do, because you are clearly insane.” 

“Damn it, no, this is serious...” Sam crossed the road so he was almost level with him. “I'm your brother. I want to help you... because...”

“Because why? Huh? Got some big bad monster under the bed you need me to help get rid of?”

The tone and words nearly made Sam weep. “Sort of... we uh... have to stop the Apocalypse.”

“I'd like to help you. Really I would.” He came over and put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. Dean was rather worried about this guy – what the hell was he on to think he had to stop the Apocalypse? As if the end of the world was going to happen any time soon... “But you're clearly in need of the sort of help I can't provide.” He fumbled for his cell. “I can give you the name of the psychiatrist I go to see in town... I think he might be a little more qualified than I am.” 

Sam was in utter disbelief – not in that his brother was denying what he'd told him – but the fact that he was actually being straightforward about his own health. He was used to having to wrench that kind of information out of his brother with a crowbar. Dean didn't even like to admit it when he had the flu – he just knocked back some cold medicine and that was that. Then the idea came to Sam that while he might not want to talk to the doctor, he'd really like to take a good look at the doctor's file. “Look, I know I sound crazy...”

Dean had finished scrolling through the numbers on his phone. “Person who can probably help you most is Doctor Sheldon, Richard Sheldon...” He chuckled. “Don't call up Doctor Peter Sheldon... made that mistake once... the guy's a veterinarian...Richard's his brother...” He frowned. “Or are they cousins...” He looked befuddled for a moment and then a bell sounded through the early morning. “I hope you find the help you need.” He turned and walked away, leaving Sam alone. 

Sam opened the door of the Impala and watched as his older brother checked something on the four wheeler one last time and then drove up the dirt road, disappearing over the small rise. He knew that his story had sounded unbelievable. Okay, it was unbelievable. But it was the truth and the sooner Dean got his memory back, the better things would be. He got into the car and slammed the door, knowing that returning to this place wasn't a good idea – he didn't want local authorities to get involved in this anymore than they already were. As he started up the car and drove away, he did know one thing – he was calling Castiel the minute he got back into town.

They'd get Dean out of that house tonight under the cover of darkness. By this time tomorrow, he'd be driving hell bent for Sioux Falls. His brother would already be in the panic room at Bobby's house - 

And together, he, Cas and Bobby would get Dean Smith back to being Dean Winchester.

*

Breakfast in the Mayfleet house turned out to be a silent affair. Dean pulled a biscuit apart and slathered it with butter, wondering what had gone on in the house while he'd been down by the road. Shannon looked hurt and Harry kept giving his son looks that the guy was completely ignoring. Luke on the other hand kept glaring at Dean like he was dirt or worse. It was a dramatic change from last night, to say the least. Dean was actually surprised he got any food down, between the murderous looks from across the table and the situation with the guy down by the road. If it'd just been him, Harry and Shannon, he probably would have brought it up... _Are you that stupid, Dean? Luke resents you being here._ He kept his focus on his plate, hoping he was imagining the whole thing. It was weird, as the one time he'd met Lexi, she'd rather been glad to find out someone was around the farm to help her parents on occasion. _If Luke has issues with me being here, then why does he live all the way in Paris, France? Maybe it's the fact that you actually hauled your ass out of bed to help out this morning instead of staying tucked in bed – well, hell, the guy's probably jet-lagged to all get out, so it's not like he should be expected to..._

“Dean?” Harry's voice cut into his thoughts.

“Yes sir?” He flinched at that. He'd never called Harry 'sir' before. _I must have used to call my dad that, or something._

“You find any thing in all those weeds down there by the road?”

“No, thankfully – just weeds and overgrown grass.”

“That's good. Get that raked up soon...” Harry added another pancake to his plate. “What are you going to do today, Luke?” His meaning was clear, despite the fact he'd left off the 'to help out around here' part from his speech.

Luke stabbed at his scrambled eggs. “I'm sure mom has something for me to do.” His voice was barely even.

“Harry, he's come a long way...” 

“So has Dean.” The man said flatly. “And he didn't have the option of sleeping on the way here.”

“Would you two please stop this?” Shannon voice cut through the air. “We've settled this... It's time you both let it go and move on.” 

Dean resisted the urge to shovel down the rest of his meal and get out of the kitchen and back to work as quickly as possible. He had the feeling that his days of rest and helping out around the farm weren't going to be the peaceful respite he'd been hoping for. Of course, he probably should have known that when the black Impala showed up. As he chewed on his biscuit, he had the strange notion that Sam Wesson – Winchester? - and the man in the trench coat were connected somehow. He decided that maybe he should call up Dr. Sheldon himself to see if he could get into see the man for a session while he was in town. With all that had happened in the last few days, he could probably use it.

**

Sam got back to the motel, knowing he'd have to pack up and leave before the end of the day – so he wouldn't be connected to the disappearance of Dean Smith. He had paid for two nights and knew Cas would be able to remain in the room waiting until it was late enough for him to go pick his brother up. Waiting would probably be the angel's only problem with the whole incident. He heard the small flutter that always accompanied Castiel's arrival and he stuck his head out of the bathroom. “You okay?”

Castiel turned his gaze towards him. “I am fine, Sam.” He sat down in a chair by the window. “Everything is ready and waiting at Bobby's house.”

“Part of me really wishes it didn't have to come down to this.” Sam sat down on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. “I'm still trying to get over Dean telling me he has a psychiatrist.”

“I do not believe the man who has been trying to return Dean's memory to him has been very beneficial.”

“Mental health isn't like psychical health, Cas. Although I am not looking forward to seeing what sort of mood Dean's going to be in tomorrow morning when he wakes up in the panic room.” He shook his head. “He thinks we're both crazy...for all we know, he thinks you're a figment of his imagination.”

The angel winced, ever-so slightly at that notion. “We will help him get better Sam.”

“It's not going to be easy.” Sam sighed and dropped his hands. “I should get out of here – it's sixteen hours to Sioux Falls from here – without stopping.”

Castiel thought for a moment. “Perhaps it would be beneficial to you if you were to stop at one point for rest. It would not do for you to arrive in South Dakota to tired to be of of any assistance in helping Dean's memory return.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I'll get as far as Des Moines. I'll take a four hour nap, or something.” He checked his watch. “It's ten in the morning now – I can get there in twelve hours.” He stood up and went into the bathroom to start gathering up his things. “Can you keep yourself occupied until midnight?”

“I should not have a problem.” He watched Sam pack. “This farm Dean is on... are there many animals there?”

“I'm not sure... are animals a problem?”

“As most of them are likely to be in a barn, I do not believe so.”

Sam was almost amused. “Is the problem with them or with you?”

“I do not like horses.”

“You don't like horses?” He blinked. “Any particular reason?”

“Horses remind me of Egyptians.” He turned his gaze and focused on the far wall. “I assume you know of what happened to the Egyptians before the Exodus of the Hebrews.”

“Yeah...” Sam stuffed a bottle of shampoo back into his duffel bag. “Cas, are you telling me you were...”

“Looking back upon it, it is not something most of the angels involved in look back on in any sort of pride or accomplishment. We can only take comfort in the fact that, unlike the children of Israel, the first born children of the Egyptians died painlessly.”

“Shit.” Sam sat down heavily on the bed, trying to process that bit of information. An unbidden thought came to him and he snorted involuntarily.

“I fail to see what is amusing.”

“No... I was just thinking...” His smile slowly became more certain. “If Dean was sitting here and you told him that... he'd probably be asking you if Moses looked anything like Charleston Heston.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side, blinking. “I do not believe Dean has seen _The Ten Commandments_ , Samuel.”

“Oh, he has.” He coughed. “It was a long time ago, but he has.”

“I take it the movie was something you desired to watch?”

“No.” He grinned. “Pastor Jim had us watch it – more like made us watch it.” He sighed. “Times I wish he was still alive.”

“I know, Sam.” The angel looked away from the wall and towards him. “You should get going.”

“Yeah.” He double checked the drawers, the bathroom and under the bed. “I'll see you when I get to Sioux Falls. If something happens...”

“Do not worry, I will call you if a problem occurs.”

“Right.” He handed the angel the hotel room key. “Just leave it on top of the television when you leave.”

“Yes.” He stood up. “Be careful.”

“You too.” Sam picked up his bag and left Castiel standing alone in the hotel room.

*

Sam wasn't aware that he wasn't alone in the Impala until just after he got back on the road from going through a McDonald's drive-thru. He'd unwrapped his burger and was already accelerating down the highway when there was a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Thinking he'd just seen a bird or something in the rear-view mirror, he was completely unprepared when a brown, black and gray tabby cat pounced on the paper bag holding another burger and his fries. “What the hell!” He dropped his sandwich on the seat as he gripped the wheel to keep the car steady. The cat, startled by his shout, scrambled over the seat and hunched down in the back, half cowering and hidden under the bench seat. “Where'd you come from?” He shot a look back at the cat as he flicked on the hazard lights and pulled over onto the shoulder. “There's no hitchhikers allowed, little guy.” He slid across the bench front seat getting out of the car on the passenger side and opened up the back door, reaching for the animal, who slunk further back under the seat. “Come here..” 

The cat peered at him from it's shadowy hiding place, not moving. Standing up, Sam sighed and straightened up. The town he'd stopped in wasn't all that far – but as he stood there, he watched the cars racing past him going sixty, seventy miles an hour. Looking behind him, he saw hawks diving for mice in a cornfield. Rolling his eyes, Sam shut the back door and got back in the front. He took the already opened burger and set it on the floor of the passenger side of the car. 

Sure, it was an annoying little thing – but it really didn't deserve to get hit by a car or be dinner for a hawk. He started the car back up and pulled into traffic, heading back down the road, shaking his head. Dean would probably have a coronary of he knew there was an animal in his beloved Impala. A few minutes later, Sam heard paper rustling and he glanced down to see the cat nibbling at the offering. “If you need to stop, you better let me know.” He said, shaking his head. As he unwrapped his undamaged burger, he gave a second glance to the cat – wondering if it was the same one he'd seen sitting on that four-wheeler Dean was using back in Kentucky. _Well, if it is, it will be one thing Dean will recognize._

**

Dean was exhausted and felt wonderful about it. He and Harry had worked almost non-stop all day – and managed to get everything in order around the barn and the property boundaries. There were still two huge brush piles that need to be taken care of – but that's it. That's tomorrow's task and that should be easy enough. Groaning, he lowered himself to sit on his bed, feeling more tired than he has in a while. Harry had told him there was no need to get up with the dawn in the morning and to go ahead and sleep in – he'd earned it. Dean didn't feel like objecting. Tomorrow they'd burn the brush and he'd help Shannon in the house – there were a few stairs that were squeaking that he planned on taking a look at. He shook his head at the thought of Luke Mayfleet doing much repair work – although he thought the younger man – Shannon had told Dean that her son was twenty-seven – wasn't much for manual labor. 

Letting out a low groan, he laid down, glad to be horizontal. Maybe tomorrow he could also find out what the hell was up with Luke, as the man was clearly annoyed about something. Dean couldn't imagine what it was – although he had a feeling that Harry wasn't to keen on what his son did for a living. He glanced over at the digital numbers of the alarm clock – it was ten thirty. He closed his eyes and let out a few deep breaths. He'd called up Dr. Sheldon after lunch and made an appointment to go see him tomorrow. According to the doctor, the flashes of memory he was starting to have was an indicator that his memory was slowly starting to return and the last thing that Dean needed was to have things snap back into place and be unable to cope with it alone. Retrograde amnesia left him able to function almost seamlessly in the world – he still knew how to drive, do laundry, read – day to day things – it was his personal history he couldn't remember. 

Dean hadn't put much thought about what he'd do when his memory finally did return. He might look at the life he'd gained and the life he lost and see if he could somehow make the two become one life and go on as he was. The lack of someone looking for him without a lot of earnest told him that his old life wasn't like his new one. He's seen missing reports on television more times than he cared to – and no one seemed to be looking for him to that degree. He yawned, thinking that maybe – just maybe – the little brother he could sort of remember – Sam – _Sam's a real popular name –_ maybe his brother was in the military – and he was off in the Middle East – at some undisclosed location, cut off from outside communication... he hoped that wherever his brother was tonight, that he was safe. Yawning again, he rolled over, tucked his arms under the pillow and drifted off to sleep. 

The Mayfleet farm was quiet, with the wind occasionally rustling through the trees and the wind-chimes on the back porch tinkled faintly. The air was light and airy, a faint scent of lilacs hung in the peaceful night, dispelling the last of winter. There was a large bush next to one side of the house, the pale white blossoms were a sharp contrast to the dark pink blooms starting on the row of knock-out roses that grew underneath the kitchen window. Nothing stirred in the barn – the only animals in sight were owls and bats, diving in a strange tandem to snare insects or field mice. 

Castiel stood and watched all this in the stillness, just in the shadow of the barn. He could sense four people sleeping in the house. He glanced upward at the half-open windows, coaxing the night breeze to cool the house down, he was struck by the vulnerability of it all. As he reappeared in the narrow hallway, it was rather like looking at a building with no fire escape. No salt lines, no devil's traps – nothing to protect the family from the dangers that lay hidden in the shadows. He stood there and listened for a moment, separating the two snoring men from each other – while one was deeper and even, they had enough similarity to know that they were father and son. 

The angel walked quietly to the last bedroom and opened the door, thankful that it did not creak the way so many of the doors in Bobby Singer's house did. Castiel glanced at the clock on the table – it was eleven thirty. As he stood next to the dresser, for some inexplicable reason, he found himself picking up the wallet sitting there and dropping it into his coat pocket. As turned towards the bed itself, a breath hitched in his throat. It wasn't like a few nights ago when he'd found Dean sleeping in that motel in Texas. He wasn't buried under the covers, but laying on top of them. 

Castiel looked over at the open window, knowing that the man sleeping before him had no idea just how dangerous that was. A demon could slip into this house easily, possess a member of the Mayfleet family and kill everyone. That knowledge chilled Castiel – and he made a note that after this was over and Dean was back to being Dean – they would come back and tell the Mayfleets the whole truth. They deserved that. He quietly went over to the bed and gently pulled Dean from his prone position to sitting up. Giving the room one last look around – Castiel closed his eyes and they vanished from the Mayfleet farm.

They landed, none to gracefully, in the panic room of Bobby Singer's house. Castiel slowly carried Dean across the room and gently laid him down on the bed on one wall. Just as he started to rise, though he was loathe to leave the small room, he became aware that Dean was awake. He found himself utterly frozen as those green eyes stared at him, trying to comprehend what was going on. 

Dean blinked up at the stranger – feeling half awake, half asleep. He sat up, not taking in his surroundings at all, noticing nothing but the person in front of him. He reached a hand out and slid it across Castiel's cheek. He leaned closer, studying the face in front of him and his eyes met Cas's he smiled. “I always do like this dream...”

Castiel was completely caught off-guard when a moment later, Dean pressed his lips to his. The shock didn't last to long as instinct and five months of being apart overrode common sense and he found himself returning the kiss. One hand slid into Dean's hair and the other settled on his shoulder as he felt Dean's free hand slid around his arms, embracing him as they kissed. He didn't want the moment to end and at the same time he knew he had to end it. Dean thought he was dreaming, had no idea this was real and oh, _Father help him_ , Cas couldn't break the hold. If angels could cry, he was certain he would be weeping as he gently lowered Dean's head back down to the pillow and reluctantly, very, very reluctantly broke the kiss. “You need your rest, Dean.” He brushed his fingers along the man's nose, smiling as he watched the man pull the covers up to his chin, a grin evident on his face. A dopey, silly look that Castiel is certain no one – save him – has ever seen on Dean Winchester. He brushed his thumb along the man's forehead as he listened to his breathing. “I will be here when you wake up.” 

“Promise?” Dean's voice is barely audible in the dark room.

“I promise.” He let out a soft sigh. “I'm not going to lose you again.” As he sat there, he reached into his other coat pocked and drew out the amulet that he'd asked Dean for all those months ago. Somehow, finding God had taken a backseat to finding the man sleeping before him. _The Lord works in mysterious ways..._ He gently slipped the leather cord back around the neck of it's proper owner, his fingers brushing against where it settled against his chest. 

**  
Sam drove into the salvage yard just after five in the morning. He'd driven like mad the last few hours, taking advantage of the very light traffic and lack of cops on the interstate to go ten miles over the speed limit. When he finally got out of the car, the cat ran from the Impala as if it were on fire and immediately went and hid under one of the shadowy wrecks. Shaking his head tiredly, Sam shut the door and went up the ramp he and Dean had installed on Bobby's porch shortly after the man had become wheelchair bound. He'd not slept much during his short break in Iowa – he'd been to nervous. But as no news was always good news, he assumed that Castiel made it safely here, with Dean in tow. Although now that they had Dean back, he had no idea how in the world they were going to jog his brother's memory back into place. The smell of coffee greeted him when he let himself into the house – and he found Bobby sitting in his study, flipping through a book. “You're up early.”

“Couldn't sleep.” He glanced up. “I wasn't expecting you this early.”

“Nerves.” He went into the kitchen, retrieved his own mug of coffee and came back into the study, walking back and forth across the room slowly, getting the circulation in his legs going. “Where's Cas?”

“He's downstairs, has been almost since he got back. He's waiting for Dean to wake up.” He put a marker in the book he was reading and shut it. “Look Sam, this isn't going to be easy...and it's not like we have a lot of time either.”

Sam sighed and took a sip from his mug. “I know Bobby, but we have to try.” He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “We are talking about a guy who managed to turn a completely wrecked sixty-seven Chevy Impala back into working order... when the only thing working on it was the volume on the radio.” 

The old hunter gave Sam an exasperated look. “And here I thought Sam the Optimist was gone forever.”

“Hey...” He shrugged his shoulders. “For all we know, he'll wake up, see the panic room and it will just snap back.”

“When that memory snaps back Sam, it's not going to be pretty. There's shit you boys have seen that no one should have to. What happens when he remembers Hell?”

Sam set down his mug, unable to handle that kind of question. He had asked Dean once and only once what Hell was like – and when Dean finally had told him about it – _I'm not talking about a bad day here. The things that I saw? There aren't words – there is no forgetting, there's no making it better. You can never understand._ He let out a deep breath. “That's why Cas is here, Bobby.”

Bobby took a drink from his coffee mug. “It's not going to be easy.” He looked up. “At least now we don't have to worry about any other angels or demons finding him first.”

“Yeah, there is that.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Oh yeah... I acquired a stow-away on the way here.”

“You acquired a what?” 

“A cat decided to jump into the Impala at some point...” He felt his face flush and he managed a slight chuckle. “I uh... think it's the same cat I saw with Dean yesterday morning...”

“Why didn't you just leave it somewhere?” Bobby snorted. 

“Call it... uh...” He looked embarrassed. “Well, if it is the same cat I saw yesterday... odds are, it's going to be the only thing Dean will recognize easily – and well, like I said...”

“Whatever.” The hunter snorted and wheeled himself into the kitchen. “As long as it doesn't get in here and start chewing on the books...” 

*

Sam went into the basement and headed for the panic room at just after seven in the morning. He was carrying a tray with some toast, a mug of coffee and an orange. The door of the room was slightly ajar as he stepped inside. Castiel was sitting in a chair next to the bed where Dean was still sleeping. “Nice to know someone around here got a good night's sleep.” He set the tray down that he was carrying. “How long have you been here?”

The angel turned and looked at him. “Just before midnight.”

Sam came over and looked down at his sleeping brother. He doesn't think he's ever seen his brother look so peaceful – not any time he can remember clearly. He's fairly certain that Cas probably hasn't seen this look on Dean either. Odds are, if he ever looked like this in sleep, it had been before the age of four – before the fire that claimed their mother's life occurred. He shook his head. “I think we should wake him up rather than let him jerk awake on his own.”

“I do not think that would be...” Castiel stopped speaking as Dean turned over in the bed, slowly starting to stretch. “Wise...” They both watched as Dean stretched his arms out in front of him and then did the same with his legs, rolling over onto his back. 

Dean grimaced as he woke up. The bed had somehow become harder and the mattress thinner in the night. Thinking he might have rolled out of bed and onto the floor, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and then stretched them out to lie spread eagle on the bed. His right arm trailed off into thin air and his left slammed into something hard. Something that echoed back metallicly when struck. “Aggck...” He groaned and turned towards the offending intrusion and saw something that didn't make sense. A gray-brown wall was on one side of his bed, with riveted bands running along it every three feet or so. “What the hell?” He sat up, still not noticing the other two occupants in the room as he reached out and ran his hand along the wall. The wall was coated something and when he brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed, he knew – they were coated in salt. 

“Dean?” A voice said from behind him and he slowly turned. Panic slammed into him with all the force of a Mack Truck. Not only was Sam Wesson-Winchester in the room with him, so was the man in the trench coat. He jumped and winced as his back slammed into the wall. “Hey, be careful...” Sam held out a hand to steady his brother as he looked for a method of escape. 

“What?” Dean kept looking from one man to the other, noting the open door behind the one standing and he knew he didn't have a chance of making it there. “Where am I?”

“You're safe.” Castiel said quietly. 

“Safe?” He replied incredulously. “You...” He did some quick calculations in his mind – he couldn't be that far from the Mayfleet farm. Even if they got him out of the house and into a car, he couldn't be much further than St Louis. “Where am I?”

“Sioux Falls, South Dakota.” Castiel replied, his head tilting to the side.

“I can't be in Sioux Falls, that's sixteen hours from Williamsburg!” He looked from the tall man – Sam – to the other one, the one sitting down. “Who are you?”

“Castiel.” He knew that Dean did not know who he was – at least, not when he was awake. 

“What, you help Sam here hunt monsters?” He was starting to think this was another one of his crazy dreams brought on by his medication. He'd had one of these before – although in that one, he was running through the woods – chasing something. 

“Occasionally.” Castiel replied flatly. “We want to help you, Dean.”

“Help me how?” 

“Look, this is hard to believe...” Sam started to speak. “But...”

“I told you yesterday, Sam and Dean Winchester are dead. They died in a fire three years ago. I'm not Dean and you're not Sam.”

“You did not die in a fire, Dean.” Castiel said. “You were, however, killed by a hell hound a month after the fire that was reported to have killed you.”

“What!?” 

Sam covered his face with his hand. “Cas...” He groaned.

“If I was killed by a hell hound, then what am I doing sitting here?” Dean's voice was rising and he could clearly be heard by Bobby upstairs. It didn't even occur to him to ask what a hell hound was. Although a fraction of a second later he wondered if a hell hound was the dog he saw in the flashback a few days ago. 

“You are here, Dean, because I raised you from Perdition.” 

Dean stared at the trench-coat man _– Castiel -_ “What, are you an angel or something?”

In response, Cas nodded.

“This is a dream.” Dean's shoulders slumped, rather resigned. “I am so getting off the medication that Dr. Sheldon put me on because this.. this is not healthy.”

“You're not dreaming.” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I know this is hard to believe...”

“Yeah, I know... I've got to help you save the world.” Dean said snappishly.

“Dean...” Castiel was cut off as Sam put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Let's... let's give him some time alone.” He nodded towards the door. 

“Very well.” Castiel stood and went towards the door, pausing at the threshold and looking back at Dean with a clearly pained expression and then stepped out of the room.

Sam looked down at his big brother, who was blinking rapidly, trying to wake himself up. “There are some of your clothes over in that locker...” He nodded towards the metal storage container. “There's some breakfast for you too...” He pointed to the table and then went to the door. “Look Dean, we just want to help you.” He swallowed, knowing that a year ago the roles had been reversed and his brother had locked him in this same room to detox from his demon blood addiction. “We'll come and check on you in a bit.” He stepped out of the room.

“In a bit I'll be waking up, Sam Whatever.” He snorted as the door shut with a loud clang and he heard the lock groan into place. Shivering slightly in the cool room, he made his way over to the lockers, not really wanting to indulge in this crazy dream any longer than he had to. If this was a dream, would you be cold? He pulled on a worn pair of jeans and then pulled a plaid button up shirt over his arms and settled in on his shoulders. So the clothes fit – almost perfectly – that didn't mean they were his. He rummaged around the container, looking for a pair of socks – which he found along with a pair of boots. The fact that he had gotten dressed and been aware of the cold was enough to convince him he wasn't dreaming. The clothes fitting him he knew wasn't to hard – there were plenty of guys built similar to him, but the shoes fitting to well... and the story they were telling him made absolutely no sense. How had they gotten into the Mayfleet house and...

_What if they've hurt Shannon and Harry?_

He went over to the door and tried to open it – even though he'd heard a latch slamming into place. Dean was however, slightly shocked when a narrow slit opened in the door and he made eye contact with the blue eyed man named Castiel. 

“Yes, Dean?”

“What have you done with Harry and Shannon?” He said, anger in his voice.

“We have done nothing with them. They are at their home in Kentucky.” He had heard the genuine concern in Dean's voice. “We will explain everything to them when the time comes.” The slit closed again. 

“You can't keep me locked up in here, you know.” He addressed the door. “This is kidnapping!” His voice rose and he hit the wall once with his fist. “Let me out!” He hit the wall again, the sound echoing in the stillness. Grimacing in pain, he backed away from the door, deciding it was best to save his strength for when he had a better chance of getting out. He went over to the table and picked up a slice of toast. He ate slowly, taking in the rest of the room. Far above him, he could see what looked like a Star of David made of metal just below a sweeping fan. That, at least, explained the steady whumping sound he kept hearing. There were more symbols painted on the floor and he made his way around the largest one, trying to figure out what it was. He took a drink from the coffee mug and grimaced at the taste – it wasn't the worst coffee he'd ever had, but it was close. He started on the second piece of toast and from outside the room he heard an odd sound and he had to stop and listen. It sounded, strangely enough like chains. 

The memory hit him hard, harder than the one a few days ago. He was thrown against something hard and he felt ribs crack as he made contact. The coffee mug he was holding fell and shattered to the ground as the memory sent Dean to his knees. Unimaginable pain ripped through his side – someone was slicing into him. His eyes flew open and all he could see was green smoke and chains – an endless maze of miles and miles of heavy chains. He curled into a ball, whimpering as he heard someone laughing as pain roared up his back, his legs _– everywhere –_ it was as if he was being roasted alive. The voice was taunting him, mocking – that wretched voice that haunted all his dreams – the voice he despised and feared. _I can stop this Dean... all I need from you is one little word..._

In the haze of pain, he heard the door slide open and heard someone calling for help. Someone had pulled him into a sit and he heard pounding feet on stairs. The flashback would not let him go, he was trapped, he couldn't escape as the memory – if that's what it was – got darker and darker. Everything was a haze of pain and confusion. Then there was a brilliant light that filled the whole of the memory –a light so dazzling, so white, so completely pure that it obliterated everything in sight. Pain raced to one spot – just to his forearm where the burn mark was. Blackness was about to overwhelm him when the stench of earth and dried grass filled his nostrils and he heard his own raspy voice screaming for help – and then he knew no more.

**

The child leaned on the tire swing, the rope groaning as she swung back and forth in the early morning air. The tree was massive and how it survived being stuck by lightening all these years was nothing short of a miracle. Sighing, the little girl jumped down and walked slowly through the ruins of what had once been a thriving barnyard. The house was half stove in, the glass from it's windows long since gone. The barn had collapsed on itself years ago and had been overtaken by kudzu, just as the house was starting to yield to it. Skipping across the overgrown grass with little care despite her bare feet, the child came to a wooden fence and climbed up it, gazing out on a field that was overgrown with alfalfa, weeds and wildflowers. Far in the distance, she could make out a line of trees.

It had been a very good five months. It had been a very interesting five months – and that, more than anything had made this little diversion worthwhile. She could have ended it at any time – anytime she wanted to, but she hadn't. The accident hadn't been her fault – the trap had been laid by someone else. The trap hadn't even been for Dean – it was supposed to be for Sam. She'd merely set about correcting it. Free Will might be an illusion – but tricking someone into being a vessel, that just smacked of wrong. The only thing in this place that had been absolutely real was the cat called Bluebeard. Everything else – from the farm to the Mayfleets themselves was merely a creation. Stretching in the sunshine, she heard a flutter behind her and she turned. “Took you long enough to catch up, Gabriel.”

The archangel leaned against the tree, a slightly satisfied smirk on his face. “I knew you couldn't do it, Michael.” 

“Do what, exactly?” She didn't turn around.

“Trick Dean into saying yes.” 

“I merely foiled Lucifer's plan to trap Samuel.”

Gabriel snorted and came to lean against the fence. “I also didn't think you'd take an improper vessel.”

“I found this poor child buried under twenty feet of mud in a landslide in the Philippines. It is not easy to watch someone so innocent die slowly... and I have no intention of taking the girl out of Heaven after I am finished here.” He held his arms out, walking the fence like a balance beam. “I will still fight Lucifer when the time comes.” He turned on the fence post and looked around the ruined farm. “But not now, not this century...” 

“And how exactly do you intend to get our brother back into Hell?”

The girl's face suddenly broke into the most absolutely delighted look Gabriel had seen in eons. Grace was pouring off his older brother so profusely, it was a wonder he could keep himself in his vessel. “Haven't you heard the news?” The child's eyes were shinning with pure joy. “Daddy's home!”


	6. Coda: Drops of Jupiter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael acquires a vessel.

Dean woke up the next morning before sunrise. There'd been no dreams to haunt or delight him this past night – and he found, in spite of that, a restful night's sleep was welcome. He lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the world outside slowly coming to life. The Mayfleet Farm wasn't a big place, by any standard. The majority of the crop was barley, most of which was sent to the Jack Daniel's distillery over in Bourbon County. He was used to waking up at this time and while normally he would just roll out of bed and get into the shower, but for now, he lay there, enjoying being able to enjoy this time before he had to start his day. He heard the faint buzzing of the alarm clock down the hall and a moment later there was water running. Yawning, he rubbed his face and figured that since he was awake, he might as well get up and help Harry out with the early morning chores – something about Luke made Dean think that the man wasn't used to heavy manual labor. 

When he got downstairs, he found that Harry had started a pot of coffee and was patiently peeling a grapefruit at the kitchen table. “You're up pretty early.” 

“Not really.” He took an orange from the fruit bowl and grabbed another pairing knife from the drawer. “I figured I may as well get up and see what I can help you with.”

“Lot of things to get cleaned up today – the state health board comes by in two days – so everything has to be pretty close to spotless.”

“Sounds like a major pain in the ass.”

“It can be.” He chuckled. “If you really want to help me out this morning, after Shannon gets up, could you mow the lawn around the house? All the rain we've had lately, I've not had time to do it and if it gets any longer, I'm going to have to borrow the neighbor's hay-baler to cut it.”

Dean snickered. “I don't think it's as bad as that.” 

“True, it's been worse.” He got up and poured two mugs of coffee. “How have you been lately, Dean? Any progress on the memory?”

He split the orange open before replying. “Not much. I can remember I have a brother named Sam... he's younger than me.” He started breaking the fruit into segments. “But for some reason, I think he's taller than I am.”

“Interesting.” Harry set a mug down in front of him. “Well, it will come back eventually, the doctors say so.”

“I know.” He gave the man a small grin. He didn't want to bring up Cas, whoever he was – he wanted to keep that to himself for now. He didn't know if he'd ever want to share that person with anyone. “I also had this guy get into the cab a couple of days ago... no idea how he got there. He said he knew me.”

“You sure you weren't hallucinating again?” Harry said, taking a drink of coffee. 

“Possibly.” There had been a week in December when he had sworn he was seeing monsters – actual _monsters_ of the horror-movie type on every corner. The doctors changed his medication shortly after that and the problem had gone away. “Though I was off my meds at the time.”

“You're not supposed to go off those things cold turkey Dean.” Harry admonished. “The side effects are pretty bad.”

“I know.” But given that he's fairly certain the lack of drugs is what gave him the awesome dream of two nights ago, he might just flush every last one of them down the toilet if he wasn't worried that he might actually change his mind about it sometime. Knowing his luck, if he did that, he'd want the drugs back at two in the morning when there isn't any way to get a new prescription. “It'd be nice if they'd give you an estimated time of memory return...” He sighed.

“I know, son.” Harry said, pulling off a segment of grapefruit. “What do you say you and I head outside, see if we can get half of this to-do list done before a proper breakfast?”

“Sounds good.” He drained the last of his coffee and cleaned up the fruit peels before refilling his mug and following the man outside. 

The sun had made just enough of an appearance to bathe the yard in a shadowy light that was tinged with yellow. There was a faint chill in the air that would be gone by noon, giving way to what promised to be a beautiful spring day. The two of them got to work. Harry sent Dean out on the four-wheeler to check the fences around the property, sending him out with the weed eater as well, as the grassy area along the road was becoming overwhelmed. Harry was going to tend to the small amount of livestock the farm had – three cows (which were kept for dairy purposes) five horses (Harry claimed he kept them around in case gasoline ever ran out – that and the grandkids would be heartbroken if they found them gone) – there was also one pig and a handful of chickens that weren't destined for anything but the Mayfleet's dinner table. There were also two dogs and Dean was never sure how many cats there were – he was just glad they didn't make him sneeze – and the only one who showed him any attention was Bluebeard. Actually, Dean sometimes thought it was crazy about how much the scrawny cat followed him around. 

Just as he expected, when he put the ATV in park and got off to start on the patch of ground near the highway, the cat was trotting along the drive towards him. “I don't have any food, if that's what you're looking for.” He said as he picked the weed-eater up from the wooden box that was attached to the back of the vehicle. He shook his head as the cat jumped up onto the now vacant seat and watched him. “Crazy cat.” Dean scratched the animal once on the back of the head before setting about to his task. He did remember the headphones and goggles this time – the last time he'd forgotten the former and had been half deaf the rest of the day. 

Harry hadn't been kidding about the weeds starting to look scary. Nearly all of them were knee-high on Dean. “Damn.” He muttered as he revved the small engine and started to work. Thankfully, in the cool of the morning, it was easy work – the damp wasn't so bad as it could have been. By the time the sun has made a full appearance in the sky, the weeds are all mowed down and the posts of the barbed wire fence that spanned the length of the farm are visible again. His stomach grumbling, Dean started to put things back in the wooden box, knowing he'll be back down here after breakfast, raking the refuse up. He snorted as the cat jumped into the back of the ATV and then looked up at him with a look that seemed far to intelligent. He shook his head as he heard a car door shut behind him. He hadn't heard a car approaching, but that could have been due to the motor of the weed-eater and the headphones. He slowly turned and swallowed. 

It was the black Impala – well, maybe not _the_ black Impala, but how many of those where there in the country in that good of condition? Standing outside of it wasn't the man in the trench coat, but a younger man with shaggy brown hair and a worn green jacket. Dean blinked once, staring at the man, trying to decide who this was and what exactly he was doing here. “You lost buddy?” That seemed like the most logical question – he wasn't dressed like a traveling salesmen, or someone going door to door (or would it be farm to farm?) for a politician. Then he recognized him. “You didn't come all this way just to pay back twenty bucks, did you?” 

Sam simply stared for a full minute. Dean Smith – was his brother. He wasn't sure if he should charge across the road and hug him until sunset or try to start explaining what was going on. “It's... uh, no...” He swallowed and pushed himself away from the Impala, heading across the drive towards his brother. “Um...”

“I didn't think so.” Dean frowned. “Sam, right?”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling a million sorts of awkward. “Uh... this is going to sound a little weird...” He took a deep breath, deciding he'd say it really fast and get it out of the way. “Uh, my name isn't Sam Wesson, it's Sam Winchester and you're name isn't Dean Smith, it's Dean Winchester and I'm sorry that I didn't do a good enough job of looking for you when you vanished four months ago.” 

Dean stared at him. “Uh, I hate to break it to you, but Sam and Dean Winchester died in a fire in Colorado a few years ago.”

“No, no we didn't... we got out of Colorado before the fire. But they still had us listed as being in custody, so we were assumed dead.” He frowned. “How... how'd you know about that fire?”

“Look, I may have amnesia, but I'm not stupid. They ran my prints when I showed up here and for some reason mine matched up with a dead guy's. It was a computer glitch – I don't know who I am, but I'm obviously not someone who died three years ago.”

“No...” Sam took a step towards him, holding his hands out. “We're not dead... we're just listed as dead. See, there was this FBI agent, his name was Hendrickson, he was after us because he thought we'd killed some people. You specifically – but it wasn't you, it was a shape-shifter who made himself look like you. We were cornered in that station by a bunch of demons sent after us by their leader, this demon named Lilith... but we exorcised all the demons and Hendrickson let us go, saying he'd file a report saying we died in custody.” He took a breath – this was actually easy now that he'd started. “But after we got away, Lilith showed up at the station and killed everyone there because we weren't there.” He then went on to tell Dean why Lilith had been after them – and was about to start on how Castiel got him out of Hell when his brother raised his hand to silence him. “Yeah?”

“Uh, Sam... Winchester, Wesson... whatever it is...” He shook his head. “Uh, the doctors prescribed me these anti-psychotic drugs about three months ago because I was having horrible nightmares...I'm thinking you might need them more than I do, because you are clearly insane.” 

“Damn it, no, this is serious...” Sam crossed the road so he was almost level with him. “I'm your brother. I want to help you... because...”

“Because why? Huh? Got some big bad monster under the bed you need me to help get rid of?”

The tone and words nearly made Sam weep. “Sort of... we uh... have to stop the Apocalypse.”

“I'd like to help you. Really I would.” He came over and put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. Dean was rather worried about this guy – what the hell was he on to think he had to stop the Apocalypse? As if the end of the world was going to happen any time soon... “But you're clearly in need of the sort of help I can't provide.” He fumbled for his cell. “I can give you the name of the psychiatrist I go to see in town... I think he might be a little more qualified than I am.” 

Sam was in utter disbelief – not in that his brother was denying what he'd told him – but the fact that he was actually being straightforward about his own health. He was used to having to wrench that kind of information out of his brother with a crowbar. Dean didn't even like to admit it when he had the flu – he just knocked back some cold medicine and that was that. Then the idea came to Sam that while he might not want to talk to the doctor, he'd really like to take a good look at the doctor's file. “Look, I know I sound crazy...”

Dean had finished scrolling through the numbers on his phone. “Person who can probably help you most is Doctor Sheldon, Richard Sheldon...” He chuckled. “Don't call up Doctor Peter Sheldon... made that mistake once... the guy's a veterinarian...Richard's his brother...” He frowned. “Or are they cousins...” He looked befuddled for a moment and then a bell sounded through the early morning. “I hope you find the help you need.” He turned and walked away, leaving Sam alone. 

Sam opened the door of the Impala and watched as his older brother checked something on the four wheeler one last time and then drove up the dirt road, disappearing over the small rise. He knew that his story had sounded unbelievable. Okay, it was unbelievable. But it was the truth and the sooner Dean got his memory back, the better things would be. He got into the car and slammed the door, knowing that returning to this place wasn't a good idea – he didn't want local authorities to get involved in this anymore than they already were. As he started up the car and drove away, he did know one thing – he was calling Castiel the minute he got back into town.

They'd get Dean out of that house tonight under the cover of darkness. By this time tomorrow, he'd be driving hell bent for Sioux Falls. His brother would already be in the panic room at Bobby's house - 

And together, he, Cas and Bobby would get Dean Smith back to being Dean Winchester.

*

Breakfast in the Mayfleet house turned out to be a silent affair. Dean pulled a biscuit apart and slathered it with butter, wondering what had gone on in the house while he'd been down by the road. Shannon looked hurt and Harry kept giving his son looks that the guy was completely ignoring. Luke on the other hand kept glaring at Dean like he was dirt or worse. It was a dramatic change from last night, to say the least. Dean was actually surprised he got any food down, between the murderous looks from across the table and the situation with the guy down by the road. If it'd just been him, Harry and Shannon, he probably would have brought it up... _Are you that stupid, Dean? Luke resents you being here._ He kept his focus on his plate, hoping he was imagining the whole thing. It was weird, as the one time he'd met Lexi, she'd rather been glad to find out someone was around the farm to help her parents on occasion. _If Luke has issues with me being here, then why does he live all the way in Paris, France? Maybe it's the fact that you actually hauled your ass out of bed to help out this morning instead of staying tucked in bed – well, hell, the guy's probably jet-lagged to all get out, so it's not like he should be expected to..._

“Dean?” Harry's voice cut into his thoughts.

“Yes sir?” He flinched at that. He'd never called Harry 'sir' before. _I must have used to call my dad that, or something._

“You find any thing in all those weeds down there by the road?”

“No, thankfully – just weeds and overgrown grass.”

“That's good. Get that raked up soon...” Harry added another pancake to his plate. “What are you going to do today, Luke?” His meaning was clear, despite the fact he'd left off the 'to help out around here' part from his speech.

Luke stabbed at his scrambled eggs. “I'm sure mom has something for me to do.” His voice was barely even.

“Harry, he's come a long way...” 

“So has Dean.” The man said flatly. “And he didn't have the option of sleeping on the way here.”

“Would you two please stop this?” Shannon voice cut through the air. “We've settled this... It's time you both let it go and move on.” 

Dean resisted the urge to shovel down the rest of his meal and get out of the kitchen and back to work as quickly as possible. He had the feeling that his days of rest and helping out around the farm weren't going to be the peaceful respite he'd been hoping for. Of course, he probably should have known that when the black Impala showed up. As he chewed on his biscuit, he had the strange notion that Sam Wesson – Winchester? - and the man in the trench coat were connected somehow. He decided that maybe he should call up Dr. Sheldon himself to see if he could get into see the man for a session while he was in town. With all that had happened in the last few days, he could probably use it.

**

Sam got back to the motel, knowing he'd have to pack up and leave before the end of the day – so he wouldn't be connected to the disappearance of Dean Smith. He had paid for two nights and knew Cas would be able to remain in the room waiting until it was late enough for him to go pick his brother up. Waiting would probably be the angel's only problem with the whole incident. He heard the small flutter that always accompanied Castiel's arrival and he stuck his head out of the bathroom. “You okay?”

Castiel turned his gaze towards him. “I am fine, Sam.” He sat down in a chair by the window. “Everything is ready and waiting at Bobby's house.”

“Part of me really wishes it didn't have to come down to this.” Sam sat down on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. “I'm still trying to get over Dean telling me he has a psychiatrist.”

“I do not believe the man who has been trying to return Dean's memory to him has been very beneficial.”

“Mental health isn't like psychical health, Cas. Although I am not looking forward to seeing what sort of mood Dean's going to be in tomorrow morning when he wakes up in the panic room.” He shook his head. “He thinks we're both crazy...for all we know, he thinks you're a figment of his imagination.”

The angel winced, ever-so slightly at that notion. “We will help him get better Sam.”

“It's not going to be easy.” Sam sighed and dropped his hands. “I should get out of here – it's sixteen hours to Sioux Falls from here – without stopping.”

Castiel thought for a moment. “Perhaps it would be beneficial to you if you were to stop at one point for rest. It would not do for you to arrive in South Dakota to tired to be of of any assistance in helping Dean's memory return.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I'll get as far as Des Moines. I'll take a four hour nap, or something.” He checked his watch. “It's ten in the morning now – I can get there in twelve hours.” He stood up and went into the bathroom to start gathering up his things. “Can you keep yourself occupied until midnight?”

“I should not have a problem.” He watched Sam pack. “This farm Dean is on... are there many animals there?”

“I'm not sure... are animals a problem?”

“As most of them are likely to be in a barn, I do not believe so.”

Sam was almost amused. “Is the problem with them or with you?”

“I do not like horses.”

“You don't like horses?” He blinked. “Any particular reason?”

“Horses remind me of Egyptians.” He turned his gaze and focused on the far wall. “I assume you know of what happened to the Egyptians before the Exodus of the Hebrews.”

“Yeah...” Sam stuffed a bottle of shampoo back into his duffel bag. “Cas, are you telling me you were...”

“Looking back upon it, it is not something most of the angels involved in look back on in any sort of pride or accomplishment. We can only take comfort in the fact that, unlike the children of Israel, the first born children of the Egyptians died painlessly.”

“Shit.” Sam sat down heavily on the bed, trying to process that bit of information. An unbidden thought came to him and he snorted involuntarily.

“I fail to see what is amusing.”

“No... I was just thinking...” His smile slowly became more certain. “If Dean was sitting here and you told him that... he'd probably be asking you if Moses looked anything like Charleston Heston.”

Castiel tilted his head to the side, blinking. “I do not believe Dean has seen _The Ten Commandments_ , Samuel.”

“Oh, he has.” He coughed. “It was a long time ago, but he has.”

“I take it the movie was something you desired to watch?”

“No.” He grinned. “Pastor Jim had us watch it – more like made us watch it.” He sighed. “Times I wish he was still alive.”

“I know, Sam.” The angel looked away from the wall and towards him. “You should get going.”

“Yeah.” He double checked the drawers, the bathroom and under the bed. “I'll see you when I get to Sioux Falls. If something happens...”

“Do not worry, I will call you if a problem occurs.”

“Right.” He handed the angel the hotel room key. “Just leave it on top of the television when you leave.”

“Yes.” He stood up. “Be careful.”

“You too.” Sam picked up his bag and left Castiel standing alone in the hotel room.

*

Sam wasn't aware that he wasn't alone in the Impala until just after he got back on the road from going through a McDonald's drive-thru. He'd unwrapped his burger and was already accelerating down the highway when there was a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. Thinking he'd just seen a bird or something in the rear-view mirror, he was completely unprepared when a brown, black and gray tabby cat pounced on the paper bag holding another burger and his fries. “What the hell!” He dropped his sandwich on the seat as he gripped the wheel to keep the car steady. The cat, startled by his shout, scrambled over the seat and hunched down in the back, half cowering and hidden under the bench seat. “Where'd you come from?” He shot a look back at the cat as he flicked on the hazard lights and pulled over onto the shoulder. “There's no hitchhikers allowed, little guy.” He slid across the bench front seat getting out of the car on the passenger side and opened up the back door, reaching for the animal, who slunk further back under the seat. “Come here..” 

The cat peered at him from it's shadowy hiding place, not moving. Standing up, Sam sighed and straightened up. The town he'd stopped in wasn't all that far – but as he stood there, he watched the cars racing past him going sixty, seventy miles an hour. Looking behind him, he saw hawks diving for mice in a cornfield. Rolling his eyes, Sam shut the back door and got back in the front. He took the already opened burger and set it on the floor of the passenger side of the car. 

Sure, it was an annoying little thing – but it really didn't deserve to get hit by a car or be dinner for a hawk. He started the car back up and pulled into traffic, heading back down the road, shaking his head. Dean would probably have a coronary of he knew there was an animal in his beloved Impala. A few minutes later, Sam heard paper rustling and he glanced down to see the cat nibbling at the offering. “If you need to stop, you better let me know.” He said, shaking his head. As he unwrapped his undamaged burger, he gave a second glance to the cat – wondering if it was the same one he'd seen sitting on that four-wheeler Dean was using back in Kentucky. _Well, if it is, it will be one thing Dean will recognize._

**

Dean was exhausted and felt wonderful about it. He and Harry had worked almost non-stop all day – and managed to get everything in order around the barn and the property boundaries. There were still two huge brush piles that need to be taken care of – but that's it. That's tomorrow's task and that should be easy enough. Groaning, he lowered himself to sit on his bed, feeling more tired than he has in a while. Harry had told him there was no need to get up with the dawn in the morning and to go ahead and sleep in – he'd earned it. Dean didn't feel like objecting. Tomorrow they'd burn the brush and he'd help Shannon in the house – there were a few stairs that were squeaking that he planned on taking a look at. He shook his head at the thought of Luke Mayfleet doing much repair work – although he thought the younger man – Shannon had told Dean that her son was twenty-seven – wasn't much for manual labor. 

Letting out a low groan, he laid down, glad to be horizontal. Maybe tomorrow he could also find out what the hell was up with Luke, as the man was clearly annoyed about something. Dean couldn't imagine what it was – although he had a feeling that Harry wasn't to keen on what his son did for a living. He glanced over at the digital numbers of the alarm clock – it was ten thirty. He closed his eyes and let out a few deep breaths. He'd called up Dr. Sheldon after lunch and made an appointment to go see him tomorrow. According to the doctor, the flashes of memory he was starting to have was an indicator that his memory was slowly starting to return and the last thing that Dean needed was to have things snap back into place and be unable to cope with it alone. Retrograde amnesia left him able to function almost seamlessly in the world – he still knew how to drive, do laundry, read – day to day things – it was his personal history he couldn't remember. 

Dean hadn't put much thought about what he'd do when his memory finally did return. He might look at the life he'd gained and the life he lost and see if he could somehow make the two become one life and go on as he was. The lack of someone looking for him without a lot of earnest told him that his old life wasn't like his new one. He's seen missing reports on television more times than he cared to – and no one seemed to be looking for him to that degree. He yawned, thinking that maybe – just maybe – the little brother he could sort of remember – Sam – _Sam's a real popular name –_ maybe his brother was in the military – and he was off in the Middle East – at some undisclosed location, cut off from outside communication... he hoped that wherever his brother was tonight, that he was safe. Yawning again, he rolled over, tucked his arms under the pillow and drifted off to sleep. 

The Mayfleet farm was quiet, with the wind occasionally rustling through the trees and the wind-chimes on the back porch tinkled faintly. The air was light and airy, a faint scent of lilacs hung in the peaceful night, dispelling the last of winter. There was a large bush next to one side of the house, the pale white blossoms were a sharp contrast to the dark pink blooms starting on the row of knock-out roses that grew underneath the kitchen window. Nothing stirred in the barn – the only animals in sight were owls and bats, diving in a strange tandem to snare insects or field mice. 

Castiel stood and watched all this in the stillness, just in the shadow of the barn. He could sense four people sleeping in the house. He glanced upward at the half-open windows, coaxing the night breeze to cool the house down, he was struck by the vulnerability of it all. As he reappeared in the narrow hallway, it was rather like looking at a building with no fire escape. No salt lines, no devil's traps – nothing to protect the family from the dangers that lay hidden in the shadows. He stood there and listened for a moment, separating the two snoring men from each other – while one was deeper and even, they had enough similarity to know that they were father and son. 

The angel walked quietly to the last bedroom and opened the door, thankful that it did not creak the way so many of the doors in Bobby Singer's house did. Castiel glanced at the clock on the table – it was eleven thirty. As he stood next to the dresser, for some inexplicable reason, he found himself picking up the wallet sitting there and dropping it into his coat pocket. As turned towards the bed itself, a breath hitched in his throat. It wasn't like a few nights ago when he'd found Dean sleeping in that motel in Texas. He wasn't buried under the covers, but laying on top of them. 

Castiel looked over at the open window, knowing that the man sleeping before him had no idea just how dangerous that was. A demon could slip into this house easily, possess a member of the Mayfleet family and kill everyone. That knowledge chilled Castiel – and he made a note that after this was over and Dean was back to being Dean – they would come back and tell the Mayfleets the whole truth. They deserved that. He quietly went over to the bed and gently pulled Dean from his prone position to sitting up. Giving the room one last look around – Castiel closed his eyes and they vanished from the Mayfleet farm.

They landed, none to gracefully, in the panic room of Bobby Singer's house. Castiel slowly carried Dean across the room and gently laid him down on the bed on one wall. Just as he started to rise, though he was loathe to leave the small room, he became aware that Dean was awake. He found himself utterly frozen as those green eyes stared at him, trying to comprehend what was going on. 

Dean blinked up at the stranger – feeling half awake, half asleep. He sat up, not taking in his surroundings at all, noticing nothing but the person in front of him. He reached a hand out and slid it across Castiel's cheek. He leaned closer, studying the face in front of him and his eyes met Cas's he smiled. “I always do like this dream...”

Castiel was completely caught off-guard when a moment later, Dean pressed his lips to his. The shock didn't last to long as instinct and five months of being apart overrode common sense and he found himself returning the kiss. One hand slid into Dean's hair and the other settled on his shoulder as he felt Dean's free hand slid around his arms, embracing him as they kissed. He didn't want the moment to end and at the same time he knew he had to end it. Dean thought he was dreaming, had no idea this was real and oh, _Father help him_ , Cas couldn't break the hold. If angels could cry, he was certain he would be weeping as he gently lowered Dean's head back down to the pillow and reluctantly, very, very reluctantly broke the kiss. “You need your rest, Dean.” He brushed his fingers along the man's nose, smiling as he watched the man pull the covers up to his chin, a grin evident on his face. A dopey, silly look that Castiel is certain no one – save him – has ever seen on Dean Winchester. He brushed his thumb along the man's forehead as he listened to his breathing. “I will be here when you wake up.” 

“Promise?” Dean's voice is barely audible in the dark room.

“I promise.” He let out a soft sigh. “I'm not going to lose you again.” As he sat there, he reached into his other coat pocked and drew out the amulet that he'd asked Dean for all those months ago. Somehow, finding God had taken a backseat to finding the man sleeping before him. _The Lord works in mysterious ways..._ He gently slipped the leather cord back around the neck of it's proper owner, his fingers brushing against where it settled against his chest. 

**  
Sam drove into the salvage yard just after five in the morning. He'd driven like mad the last few hours, taking advantage of the very light traffic and lack of cops on the interstate to go ten miles over the speed limit. When he finally got out of the car, the cat ran from the Impala as if it were on fire and immediately went and hid under one of the shadowy wrecks. Shaking his head tiredly, Sam shut the door and went up the ramp he and Dean had installed on Bobby's porch shortly after the man had become wheelchair bound. He'd not slept much during his short break in Iowa – he'd been to nervous. But as no news was always good news, he assumed that Castiel made it safely here, with Dean in tow. Although now that they had Dean back, he had no idea how in the world they were going to jog his brother's memory back into place. The smell of coffee greeted him when he let himself into the house – and he found Bobby sitting in his study, flipping through a book. “You're up early.”

“Couldn't sleep.” He glanced up. “I wasn't expecting you this early.”

“Nerves.” He went into the kitchen, retrieved his own mug of coffee and came back into the study, walking back and forth across the room slowly, getting the circulation in his legs going. “Where's Cas?”

“He's downstairs, has been almost since he got back. He's waiting for Dean to wake up.” He put a marker in the book he was reading and shut it. “Look Sam, this isn't going to be easy...and it's not like we have a lot of time either.”

Sam sighed and took a sip from his mug. “I know Bobby, but we have to try.” He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upward. “We are talking about a guy who managed to turn a completely wrecked sixty-seven Chevy Impala back into working order... when the only thing working on it was the volume on the radio.” 

The old hunter gave Sam an exasperated look. “And here I thought Sam the Optimist was gone forever.”

“Hey...” He shrugged his shoulders. “For all we know, he'll wake up, see the panic room and it will just snap back.”

“When that memory snaps back Sam, it's not going to be pretty. There's shit you boys have seen that no one should have to. What happens when he remembers Hell?”

Sam set down his mug, unable to handle that kind of question. He had asked Dean once and only once what Hell was like – and when Dean finally had told him about it – _I'm not talking about a bad day here. The things that I saw? There aren't words – there is no forgetting, there's no making it better. You can never understand._ He let out a deep breath. “That's why Cas is here, Bobby.”

Bobby took a drink from his coffee mug. “It's not going to be easy.” He looked up. “At least now we don't have to worry about any other angels or demons finding him first.”

“Yeah, there is that.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “Oh yeah... I acquired a stow-away on the way here.”

“You acquired a what?” 

“A cat decided to jump into the Impala at some point...” He felt his face flush and he managed a slight chuckle. “I uh... think it's the same cat I saw with Dean yesterday morning...”

“Why didn't you just leave it somewhere?” Bobby snorted. 

“Call it... uh...” He looked embarrassed. “Well, if it is the same cat I saw yesterday... odds are, it's going to be the only thing Dean will recognize easily – and well, like I said...”

“Whatever.” The hunter snorted and wheeled himself into the kitchen. “As long as it doesn't get in here and start chewing on the books...” 

*

Sam went into the basement and headed for the panic room at just after seven in the morning. He was carrying a tray with some toast, a mug of coffee and an orange. The door of the room was slightly ajar as he stepped inside. Castiel was sitting in a chair next to the bed where Dean was still sleeping. “Nice to know someone around here got a good night's sleep.” He set the tray down that he was carrying. “How long have you been here?”

The angel turned and looked at him. “Just before midnight.”

Sam came over and looked down at his sleeping brother. He doesn't think he's ever seen his brother look so peaceful – not any time he can remember clearly. He's fairly certain that Cas probably hasn't seen this look on Dean either. Odds are, if he ever looked like this in sleep, it had been before the age of four – before the fire that claimed their mother's life occurred. He shook his head. “I think we should wake him up rather than let him jerk awake on his own.”

“I do not think that would be...” Castiel stopped speaking as Dean turned over in the bed, slowly starting to stretch. “Wise...” They both watched as Dean stretched his arms out in front of him and then did the same with his legs, rolling over onto his back. 

Dean grimaced as he woke up. The bed had somehow become harder and the mattress thinner in the night. Thinking he might have rolled out of bed and onto the floor, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and then stretched them out to lie spread eagle on the bed. His right arm trailed off into thin air and his left slammed into something hard. Something that echoed back metallicly when struck. “Aggck...” He groaned and turned towards the offending intrusion and saw something that didn't make sense. A gray-brown wall was on one side of his bed, with riveted bands running along it every three feet or so. “What the hell?” He sat up, still not noticing the other two occupants in the room as he reached out and ran his hand along the wall. The wall was coated something and when he brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed, he knew – they were coated in salt. 

“Dean?” A voice said from behind him and he slowly turned. Panic slammed into him with all the force of a Mack Truck. Not only was Sam Wesson-Winchester in the room with him, so was the man in the trench coat. He jumped and winced as his back slammed into the wall. “Hey, be careful...” Sam held out a hand to steady his brother as he looked for a method of escape. 

“What?” Dean kept looking from one man to the other, noting the open door behind the one standing and he knew he didn't have a chance of making it there. “Where am I?”

“You're safe.” Castiel said quietly. 

“Safe?” He replied incredulously. “You...” He did some quick calculations in his mind – he couldn't be that far from the Mayfleet farm. Even if they got him out of the house and into a car, he couldn't be much further than St Louis. “Where am I?”

“Sioux Falls, South Dakota.” Castiel replied, his head tilting to the side.

“I can't be in Sioux Falls, that's sixteen hours from Williamsburg!” He looked from the tall man – Sam – to the other one, the one sitting down. “Who are you?”

“Castiel.” He knew that Dean did not know who he was – at least, not when he was awake. 

“What, you help Sam here hunt monsters?” He was starting to think this was another one of his crazy dreams brought on by his medication. He'd had one of these before – although in that one, he was running through the woods – chasing something. 

“Occasionally.” Castiel replied flatly. “We want to help you, Dean.”

“Help me how?” 

“Look, this is hard to believe...” Sam started to speak. “But...”

“I told you yesterday, Sam and Dean Winchester are dead. They died in a fire three years ago. I'm not Dean and you're not Sam.”

“You did not die in a fire, Dean.” Castiel said. “You were, however, killed by a hell hound a month after the fire that was reported to have killed you.”

“What!?” 

Sam covered his face with his hand. “Cas...” He groaned.

“If I was killed by a hell hound, then what am I doing sitting here?” Dean's voice was rising and he could clearly be heard by Bobby upstairs. It didn't even occur to him to ask what a hell hound was. Although a fraction of a second later he wondered if a hell hound was the dog he saw in the flashback a few days ago. 

“You are here, Dean, because I raised you from Perdition.” 

Dean stared at the trench-coat man _– Castiel -_ “What, are you an angel or something?”

In response, Cas nodded.

“This is a dream.” Dean's shoulders slumped, rather resigned. “I am so getting off the medication that Dr. Sheldon put me on because this.. this is not healthy.”

“You're not dreaming.” Sam ran a hand through his hair. “I know this is hard to believe...”

“Yeah, I know... I've got to help you save the world.” Dean said snappishly.

“Dean...” Castiel was cut off as Sam put a hand on his shoulder. 

“Let's... let's give him some time alone.” He nodded towards the door. 

“Very well.” Castiel stood and went towards the door, pausing at the threshold and looking back at Dean with a clearly pained expression and then stepped out of the room.

Sam looked down at his big brother, who was blinking rapidly, trying to wake himself up. “There are some of your clothes over in that locker...” He nodded towards the metal storage container. “There's some breakfast for you too...” He pointed to the table and then went to the door. “Look Dean, we just want to help you.” He swallowed, knowing that a year ago the roles had been reversed and his brother had locked him in this same room to detox from his demon blood addiction. “We'll come and check on you in a bit.” He stepped out of the room.

“In a bit I'll be waking up, Sam Whatever.” He snorted as the door shut with a loud clang and he heard the lock groan into place. Shivering slightly in the cool room, he made his way over to the lockers, not really wanting to indulge in this crazy dream any longer than he had to. If this was a dream, would you be cold? He pulled on a worn pair of jeans and then pulled a plaid button up shirt over his arms and settled in on his shoulders. So the clothes fit – almost perfectly – that didn't mean they were his. He rummaged around the container, looking for a pair of socks – which he found along with a pair of boots. The fact that he had gotten dressed and been aware of the cold was enough to convince him he wasn't dreaming. The clothes fitting him he knew wasn't to hard – there were plenty of guys built similar to him, but the shoes fitting to well... and the story they were telling him made absolutely no sense. How had they gotten into the Mayfleet house and...

_What if they've hurt Shannon and Harry?_

He went over to the door and tried to open it – even though he'd heard a latch slamming into place. Dean was however, slightly shocked when a narrow slit opened in the door and he made eye contact with the blue eyed man named Castiel. 

“Yes, Dean?”

“What have you done with Harry and Shannon?” He said, anger in his voice.

“We have done nothing with them. They are at their home in Kentucky.” He had heard the genuine concern in Dean's voice. “We will explain everything to them when the time comes.” The slit closed again. 

“You can't keep me locked up in here, you know.” He addressed the door. “This is kidnapping!” His voice rose and he hit the wall once with his fist. “Let me out!” He hit the wall again, the sound echoing in the stillness. Grimacing in pain, he backed away from the door, deciding it was best to save his strength for when he had a better chance of getting out. He went over to the table and picked up a slice of toast. He ate slowly, taking in the rest of the room. Far above him, he could see what looked like a Star of David made of metal just below a sweeping fan. That, at least, explained the steady whumping sound he kept hearing. There were more symbols painted on the floor and he made his way around the largest one, trying to figure out what it was. He took a drink from the coffee mug and grimaced at the taste – it wasn't the worst coffee he'd ever had, but it was close. He started on the second piece of toast and from outside the room he heard an odd sound and he had to stop and listen. It sounded, strangely enough like chains. 

The memory hit him hard, harder than the one a few days ago. He was thrown against something hard and he felt ribs crack as he made contact. The coffee mug he was holding fell and shattered to the ground as the memory sent Dean to his knees. Unimaginable pain ripped through his side – someone was slicing into him. His eyes flew open and all he could see was green smoke and chains – an endless maze of miles and miles of heavy chains. He curled into a ball, whimpering as he heard someone laughing as pain roared up his back, his legs _– everywhere –_ it was as if he was being roasted alive. The voice was taunting him, mocking – that wretched voice that haunted all his dreams – the voice he despised and feared. _I can stop this Dean... all I need from you is one little word..._

In the haze of pain, he heard the door slide open and heard someone calling for help. Someone had pulled him into a sit and he heard pounding feet on stairs. The flashback would not let him go, he was trapped, he couldn't escape as the memory – if that's what it was – got darker and darker. Everything was a haze of pain and confusion. Then there was a brilliant light that filled the whole of the memory –a light so dazzling, so white, so completely pure that it obliterated everything in sight. Pain raced to one spot – just to his forearm where the burn mark was. Blackness was about to overwhelm him when the stench of earth and dried grass filled his nostrils and he heard his own raspy voice screaming for help – and then he knew no more.

**

The child leaned on the tire swing, the rope groaning as she swung back and forth in the early morning air. The tree was massive and how it survived being stuck by lightening all these years was nothing short of a miracle. Sighing, the little girl jumped down and walked slowly through the ruins of what had once been a thriving barnyard. The house was half stove in, the glass from it's windows long since gone. The barn had collapsed on itself years ago and had been overtaken by kudzu, just as the house was starting to yield to it. Skipping across the overgrown grass with little care despite her bare feet, the child came to a wooden fence and climbed up it, gazing out on a field that was overgrown with alfalfa, weeds and wildflowers. Far in the distance, she could make out a line of trees.

It had been a very good five months. It had been a very interesting five months – and that, more than anything had made this little diversion worthwhile. She could have ended it at any time – anytime she wanted to, but she hadn't. The accident hadn't been her fault – the trap had been laid by someone else. The trap hadn't even been for Dean – it was supposed to be for Sam. She'd merely set about correcting it. Free Will might be an illusion – but tricking someone into being a vessel, that just smacked of wrong. The only thing in this place that had been absolutely real was the cat called Bluebeard. Everything else – from the farm to the Mayfleets themselves was merely a creation. Stretching in the sunshine, she heard a flutter behind her and she turned. “Took you long enough to catch up, Gabriel.”

The archangel leaned against the tree, a slightly satisfied smirk on his face. “I knew you couldn't do it, Michael.” 

“Do what, exactly?” She didn't turn around.

“Trick Dean into saying yes.” 

“I merely foiled Lucifer's plan to trap Samuel.”

Gabriel snorted and came to lean against the fence. “I also didn't think you'd take an improper vessel.”

“I found this poor child buried under twenty feet of mud in a landslide in the Philippines. It is not easy to watch someone so innocent die slowly... and I have no intention of taking the girl out of Heaven after I am finished here.” He held his arms out, walking the fence like a balance beam. “I will still fight Lucifer when the time comes.” He turned on the fence post and looked around the ruined farm. “But not now, not this century...” 

“And how exactly do you intend to get our brother back into Hell?”

The girl's face suddenly broke into the most absolutely delighted look Gabriel had seen in eons. Grace was pouring off his older brother so profusely, it was a wonder he could keep himself in his vessel. “Haven't you heard the news?” The child's eyes were shinning with pure joy. “Daddy's home!”

 **Title:** Drops of Jupiter  
 **Prompt:** Hallucinations  
 **Medium:** fic  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Warnings:** Mild blasphemy  
 **Word Count:** 1426  
 **Summary:** In Save Me Sioux Falls, Michael's had to take a different vessel. This is the story of how a small girl from a town with a name the Winchesters have never heard of became the host of the most powerful angel in Heaven. 

 

The year Nissa turned five was when it started. She'd gone with her family – her mom, dad and six brothers and sisters to the church on a sunny September Sunday. It was a typical day – as it was a day of rest, the whole family would head back to their tin and wood house and get ready for the coming week. Later, she and her sister would go to the well to get water for their mom to cook dinner. But for an hour and a half, the family was found in prayer. Nissa's prayers were typical of a a five year old, she guessed – she asked for God to bless her family, her friends, her schoolmates, her teachers – and anyone else who needed blessings. She'd been there, her head just barely clearing the pew in front of her when she could have sworn she saw the statue of St. Anthony in an alcove _move_. A slight head gesture in her direction – but before she could be certain, her brother had poked her back into paying attention.

She decided it was her imagination – sitting still for that long was a tough thing for her – and tried to forget about it. But it started happening more and more. It wasn't just St. Anthony's statue that seemed to follow her. There were a few other statues whose heads seemed to turn in her direction when she passed. The one of St. Francis in the entrance of her school, the angel's eyes in the stained glass window in the school as well – they seemed to be watching her. So Nissa did what any kid who is being watched did – she made sure she was always on her best behavior and never ever spoke such nonsense. She kept it to herself until she was seven and made her First Reconciliation. That was when things got weird.

In the brief moment between her saying the Act of Contrition and Father Haung giving her penance, the middle-aged priest had let out a gagging sound – like he'd swallowed a hot pepper whole. Nissa had been about to ask him if was all right when he suddenly met her gaze directly through the confessional screen. His somber brown eyes were shining with unshed tears. “You have a very special mission before you, Nissa. Do not fear and do not speak of what you have seen to anyone.” He then told her to say three Our Fathers and to go in peace, for her sins had been forgiven. 

So Nissa went on – trying not to look at the statues that moved and resigned to the fact that she was most likely destined to become a nun. She could deal with that – at least as a nun, she'd always have a home in the convent in Manila. That wasn't even uncommon in her village in the hills, many girls went into the convent and returned to help the sick and the suffering. She just had to wonder if the statues gazes in the convent would follow her too. 

When she was eight – she found out that her destiny wasn't what she thought it would be at all. In her village, the school was located halfway up one of the hills, perhaps a mile from her home. It was five times as large as the shed where Nissa and her family lived, but like her home, it was made of wood and tin – but unlike her home, the floor was a concrete slab. When it rained, it was like being inside a drum. The rain had been lashing against the building almost the entire day when, separate from the thunder came another roar. This roar came from below and behind – and one minute Nissa had been studying the spelling words on the board in front of her and the next she found herself being swept down the hill in a river of mud. 

She didn't remember losing her shoes and she was being hauled down the mountainside at an exhausting pace. Mud swam up her nose and down her throat and eventually covered her head, burying her alive. She wasn't sure how long she was aware of her surroundings – but then something nothing short of miraculous happened. A vision appeared before her – it was an angel. He was dressed in silver armor, a crimson colored cloak and was wielding a fiery sword. Despite his fearsome appearance, his face was gentle and kind. “Who... are you?” How she was able to speak with all the mud, she didn't know. 

“I'm a friend.” The angel stroked her forehead, smiling. “My name is Michael... and your name is Nissa.” 

Nissa didn't bother to ask how he knew that... he was an angel, after all. “Am I dead?”

“No child, not yet...I need your help. Will you help me?”

“Yes. I'll help you, Michael.”

Nissa wasn't sure of what happened next – other than it suddenly got very, very bright – the way the water did when the sun shone upon it. She didn't question what was happening – she felt oddly at peace. In the brightness she could see things – a large, rolling area of flatland covered in snow and speckled with frozen trees – a beach with sand that was shockingly white and water that was an incredible shade of blue – a forest with trees whose leaves were turning shades of scarlet and orange. Then there were people – all of them strangers, a tall man with long hair and a somber expression and a shorter man, with cropped hair and a leather jacket – and another angel, this one was wearing a coat. 

_“Thank you.”_ Michael's voice echoed in her mind as she felt the world returning to her and she coughed once before opening her eyes. 

Nissa expected she'd wake up in a tree, clinging to a branch and bathed in mud. Instead, she found herself in the most incredible garden she could imagine. Flowers the size of pot lids bloomed all around her, in colors that were brilliant and bold. The trees stretched far above her head – like the pictures she had seen of the Redwood Forest she'd seen in old National Geographics. That was when she realized something else – she was completely clean. Standing up, she found herself garbed in white pants and a white tunic shirt that nearly went down past her waist and the hem was treated in an embroidered pattern that matched the flowers, done in green. “Hello?” 

There was a rustle to her left and she turned quickly and was nearly surprised by a man who stepped out from behind a large frond. “I thought I heard someone over here.” The man was garbed similarly to her, only his shirt had sleeves and the embroider work on his was done in red. His hair a slight unkempt appearance to it. He also looked to be older than her dad – but younger than her grandfather. He crouched down to her level. “These are some very impressive flowers you've brought with you.”

Nissa frowned. “Am I... am I... dead?”

The man smiled sadly. “Yes. But I can report that your parents and siblings are safe – the mudslide did not harm them. Your schoolmates are also fine. A bit bruised, but they will all live.”

Nissa hugged herself. “Can I see them?”

“Not yet. Not for a while.” He ruffled her hair. “Pardon my manners, I didn't ask you your name.”

“I'm Nissa. What's your name?” She decided that this place must be Heaven. Therefore, this man had to be good. 

“My name is Dismas.” He held out his hand. “Come, I'll introduce you to the others.”

Nissa looked down at the outstretched palm and saw the dark mark in the center of it. _What's that called again? Stigmata..._ She took his hand. “What others?”

“The others who were watching you.... we've been waiting for you to arrive.” He led her over to where he'd come from and lifted the frond, leading her down a hidden path. Along the way, more people in white garments joined them.

In Williamsburg, Kentucky, Castiel, angel of the Lord took the hour while Sam and Dean ate to attend the vigil mass at St. Peter's Catholic Church.

It was the feast of All Saints.


	7. Chapter 7

It was like swimming upwards from a bottomless pool. There was nothing coherent, just a jumble of names – as if the last memory flashback and unsettled a few others and he had a handful of puzzle pieces in his hands and no idea what he was supposed to do with them. Dean didn't want to open his eyes just yet – he tried to focus on something and have it make sense. _My name is Dean – my brother's name is Sam. My dad's name is John._ He whimpered and tried to figure out who the other people whose names were coming to him – a man named Bobby and another named Gabriel – two women named Ruby – one blond and one dark haired – and he didn't like either of them. The name Cas came to him – and he slowly formed the idea that Cas might be short for Castiel. He hunched up slightly and tentatively opened his eyes. He wasn't in the dark room anymore – he was facing a window that was full of sunshine. The bed he was lying in was almost as comfortable as the one back at the Mayfleet's. A cloth came and settled over his forehead and he closed his eyes again. 

“He's waking up.” Sam's voice sounded somewhere above his head. The cloth was brushed against his face before settling back against his forehead. “Can you hear me?”

“No, I can't.” Dean retorted weakly. The memory that had broken free earlier was still lingering on the edge of his consciousness – where had he gone in his past then? Was he some kind of monster? 

“Funny.” Sam snorted. “How you feeling?”

“Pretty shitty.” He winced and opened his eyes again. “I'm still in Sioux Falls, right? You didn't move me to San Diego while I was out, did you?”

“No.” Sam chuckled weakly. “Listen, I know you don't want to believe me about the whole monsters thing...”

“Damn straight.”

“So we'll just start from scratch – and if, after we help you a little way down the road to recovery, you indulge me, okay?”

Bobby wheeled himself in from the kitchen. “I don't think Cas is going to be able to catch that cat out there – to many places for it to hide.”

Sam shot him a look. “Didn't he take the can of tuna with him?”

“Sure he did, but it's a big yard out there...it won't come up the house unless it wants to.”

Dean looked from the man in the wheelchair back to Sam. “Cat?”

“Yeah...” Sam looked amused. “I think the one that was with you yesterday hitched a ride back here with me.”

He blinked in response. “So that's where Bluebeard went... normally he won't leave me alone when I'm at home.”

Sam and Bobby exchanged glances at the word _'home.'_ “Yeah... about that...” 

“Shit!” Dean said suddenly, sitting up. “I'm supposed to be back in Lexington _tomorrow_.”

“Calm down, you idjit, what do you have to be in Lexington for?” Bobby asked, frowning.

“I have a shipment to take to San Fransisco, what's what I have to be there for.” He winced at the sharp pain in his head. “They're counting on me to be there.”

“I think what's more important right now is you getting better, not getting to work.” Sam said, sitting down on the foot of the bed. “I'm willing to bet that they'd rather have you back to work healthy than driving sick.”

Dean groaned and leaned back on the pillows. “I do have some sick time I can take.” 

“You're going to be just fine, kid.” Bobby said, wheeling himself into the other room.

“Uh, Sam?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Who is that?” He nodded in the direction that the man in the wheelchair had gone.

“That's Bobby Singer. This is his house.”

“Right.” Dean let that bit of information sink into his brain, thinking for a moment. “He does something with... with cars... I think.”

Sam managed a tired grin. “That's right, Dean. He owns a salvage yard.”

“And your last name is Winchester, it's not Wesson...”

“Yeah.” Sam was glad he didn't bring up him supposing to have died in a fire again.

“So why'd you have a credit card that said your last name was Wesson?”

“One step at a time Dean.” He wanted to avoid the more nefarious activities of the Winchester brothers for a while. 

“So if this is where Bobby lives... where's... where do.... where do we live, Sam?” He decided that he'd give this man the benefit of the doubt that they might be related – maybe one of them looked like their dad and the other looked like their mom.

Sam swallowed. “We don't.... this is the closest to a home we have... well, unless you count the Impala.”

Dean gave him a puzzled look. “Then where... where is the white house?” He could distinctly remember a comfortable looking house – it was white. But from the look Sam was giving him, he had no idea what he was talking about. “You know, the white house with the big tree in the yard.” 

“We uh... we don't live there anymore. We haven't for a long time. That house is in Lawrence.” He frowned. “You remember that house?”

“A... a little...” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “It's... it's all a jumble...” 

Bobby came back into the room with a cup of coffee. “Just don't go rushing him Sam.” He held the mug out to him.

“I won't.” Sam rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before taking the offered cup. He knew that rushing things would be bad and could cause more damage – but it wasn't as if they had much time. He'd spent the last few months trying to find his brother and almost no time trying to stop Lucifer. Cas had all but abandoned his quest to find God in favor of finding Dean. Sure, they'd gotten rid of a few monsters when they'd come across them. A shape-shifter, a few rawheads, a handful of vampires – but nothing major. Now that he stopped and thought about it – if you took away the fact that Dean had been gone, he'd been on the luckiest streak in avoiding serious trouble he'd ever had hunting. Okay, he can tell himself that is Lucifer's doing – the devil wants him alive. But seriously? No demons. For that matter, how had demons and monsters and other hunters been able to not find Dean? Dean minus the amnesia had just had a luckier streak than he had. 

“You hungry?” Bobby's voice snapped Sam from his musings.

“I could eat... yeah.” Dean replied as he swung his legs over the bed and set his feet on the floor. “How long was I out?”

“Just a couple of hours...” Sam stood up as all three of them went into the kitchen.

*

Castiel had only gone outside to catch the cat on the idea that something familiar of his new life would be beneficial at this point. He'd yet to locate where exactly the animal had settled, so he placed the can of tuna in an open area and moved away from it, resting against a car. Since he'd not seen the animal and he wasn't sure how many other stray cats might be lingering around the salvage yard, he was at a bit of a loss. He was doing his best not to think about what had happened down in the panic room. He had not stopped to think about it and now that he did, he was appalled that he hadn't thought of it earlier. Dean had spent more time in Hell than he had on Earth, so it was only natural that those were the memories that would edge their way back into his mind first – little details from before Hell would sink in here and there – but there was a forty year gulf between then and now. 

Forty years was a very long time to humans – it was half of a life. Hell was going to come back before other things, like people Dean had saved and childhood memories of Sam. He felt so lost at the moment, so utterly helpless. There wasn't any way to control what came back and how fast it did – the incident in the panic room proved that. He'd not heard Dean scream like that in years... not since he and his fellow angels laid siege to Hell. Even in that horrific cacophony of noise – the man's screams were different from all the others he heard – it alone resonated out to him and even when that cry of utter anguish turned into a twisted, harsh laugh – the agony was still there, underneath it all. Closing his eyes, Castiel could still see it in his mind's eye – just as sharp as the hour it happened.

Hell was as abstract to angels as the bottom of the ocean was to humans. It was there but it wasn't well known. There wasn't any competition among the angels to see who could reach Dean Winchester first – it was whoever could get the closest the fastest – speed was the key. Castiel had taken up his sword and his armor and gone with the other members of his garrison. They had stormed the gates, massive as they were, hundreds of feet wide. Made of bone, metal and blood – both difficult to break into and out of – the Devil's Gates were wonders of mankind – able to keep Hell at bay. Scores of angels – thousands of them, garrison upon garrison, all battering and fighting their way into that fiery pit. Demons had abandoned their tortures and taken up arms to try and repel them back. Holy fire and righteousness was as powerful as any blade. The damned screamed and begged for salvation, thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, the end of the universe was nigh and at long last, they had been granted redemption. He lost track of how many of the dark creatures fell from his strike. They had advanced so far and still he had heard the screaming laughter of the righteous man known as Dean Winchester. The First Seal shattered under his knife, he had not known then what he had started and Castiel had never held it against him. For he was a man and man was not privileged to such things. 

Fire, ice, chains and rock – all had been there, weapons of the underworld thrown against the angels of the Lord. Castiel had done the only thing that made sense to him as horde after horde rose to join the battle. He had flown – sword out, slaying whatever creature rose to block his path with one blow – determination and, if one could assume an angel possessed it – adrenaline - had powered him forward. He lost track of other members of his garrison – of Uriel and others – just soaring ever onward towards the destination he knew he had to reach, that _must_ be reached. He had gone racing to that place where Dean had stood, uncomprehending as Alistair fled, the razor falling from his bloodied hand. The soul of the man looked up – not entirely evil yet – barely even there. He had been afraid and Castiel watched him sink to his knees in fear and wonder. But what the angel remembers more than anything are Dean's eyes. Still as green as they had been as he had been in the mortal world – a shade somewhere between emerald and jade. Even in this place of horror and nightmare, of pain and unendurable torture, the angel saw the beauty in the righteous man. Then Castiel had reached out and grasped the man's arm – and he saw the man's face change to shock as they rose out of Hell. 

He would have been there to greet Dean when he crawled out of that grave in Pontiac, but things had been a touch chaotic afterwards – the rest of the angels, receiving the word of victory, had returned to Heaven – Michael's orders. Castiel hadn't even known that the man had made contact with his brother and Bobby Singer until that psychic woman, Pamela Barnes had started meddling in things she shouldn't have. He was sorry for the woman's death and also sorry that gazing upon his true form had blinded her – but, as he had told himself many times afterwards – it wasn't as if he hadn't _warned_ her. 

Castiel was shaken from his thoughts by something brushing up against his leg. Looking down, he saw a cat, scrawny, mostly gray and rather pathetic looking, trying to get his attention by rubbing his head against the side of his calf. “I do not have any more food.” He glanced at the empty can of tuna and then bent down to pick the animal up. He knew how to set the front paws against his shoulders and support the cat's back legs with his arm automatically – it was one of those things ingrained into all angel's heads. Animals, of all kinds, were just as much their father's creations as they were, though comparing a cat to an angel was a bit like comparing a drop of water to the Pacific Ocean. The cat clawed at the fabric of his trench coat for a moment and then began to purr, hard. “I do hope you are the right one...” He picked up the now empty can, still holding the cat with one arm and headed back for the house. 

*

Dean was thoroughly annoyed. He was slowly accepting some of the things that Sam and Bobby were telling him – but what pissed him off was the fact that Sam was treating him like he was a fucking invalid. The amnesia hadn't affected his ability to walk, eat, sleep – hell, apart from the fact he couldn't remember his past, Dean was fully functional. Granted, the last memory attack had been a horrible one – whatever that memory had been, but still.. He was surprised that Sam hadn't followed him into the shower to make sure he knew the function of a shampoo bottle. Hell, the only time Harry had done something remotely like that was to make sure Dean didn't accidentally slice his neck open while shaving. Something told him that Sam was probably going to repeat the process all over again. He was, however, willing to bet that Sioux Falls had a better library than Williamsburg – so finding a book on retrograde amnesia shouldn't be to hard for him.

After pulling on clean clothes – again, clothes that are supposedly his, he finds himself checking the pockets and coming up empty. The room directly across the bathroom, Dean was told – was his. His room at Bobby's house. He pushed the door open and sat down on the bed to put on his shoes. The shower did help – which was a relief. He sighed and looked slowly around the room. It looked as if someone had cleaned it just yesterday or the day before – unlike a lot of the rooms in this house, it was remarkably clear of dust. He was about to stand back up when he heard Bobby curse downstairs, there was a yowl and maybe thirty seconds later, a streak of gray fur raced into the room and promptly hid under the bed. “What the hell?” 

He got up and crouched down, noting the two glittering eyes watching him from the shadowy place. Dean recognized the cat instantly – Sam hadn't picked up a random stray, as his _brother_ thought the cat might have been. “What's the matter, Bluebeard? You don't like South Dakota either?” He patted the floor with the tips of his fingers and the animal crept out and as Dean sat up, started to demand attention. “You always were a strange one...” He picked him up, rubbing him under the chin, causing the cat to start to purr. “Yeah, it's good to see you too.” He leaned back against the bed, chuckling as the cat clawed at the fabric of his flannel shirt and then resting against his shoulder. He isn't sure if he really is the type of person who liked cats or dogs or even pets in general – but something Shannon had said to him the first time Bluebeard had gotten into the house while he'd been there and promptly took up residence at Dean's side: he was in need of something to worry over – even if it was a tough cat who usually spent it's days catching squirrels and other rodents on the farm. Harry thought it was amusing that the tom cat who was named after a pirate could suddenly start acting like a kitten again over a few minutes of attention.

He slowly stood up, still carrying the cat and made his way downstairs, not caring if Sam or Bobby laughs at him for it. Despite his uncertainty of the place, the house does seem vaguely familiar – like the memory of a dream. He stopped at the top of the stairs, staring at the stained glass window – squinting. A blond girl stood there once, angry at him – her name... what had her name been? _Bela? Jo? Jessica? Madison?_ He shook his head to clear it, but more names came to him – but none seemed right – _Lisa, Cassie, Becky, Tessa, Ellen.._.and the name suddenly snaps into place – _Meg. Meg Masters_ – Something told him that when Meg stood here, she wasn't exactly herself. 

“Dean, you okay?”

He set the cat down and it stayed next to him as he descended the stairs. “Sam...” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before opening them again and continuing. “If you want to stay on my good side, _please_ don't ask me that ever again.”

“I'll try not to.” He gave Bobby an amused look. “Though I can't promise Castiel won't.”

“Speaking of, where'd the angel go, anyway?” Bobby asked.

“He went to go to talk to Chuck... see if he has any solutions.”

“Who's Chuck?” 

“He's uh....” Sam and Bobby exchanged glances. “Remember what I told you earlier... about the monsters and... all that?”

“Yes....” He already didn't like where this conversation was going.

“There's a lot more to it than just that...” Sam ran his hands through his hair. “You uh... you better sit down for this...”

**

Castiel half expected to be smitted by Raphael the moment he appeared in the Prophet Chuck's home. But the silence that greeted him unnerved him almost as much as the archangel would have. The house was deserted. It looked as if no one has been there in a very, very long time – dust was an inch thick on the computer monitor and television. The curtains were drawn, casting the rooms into shadows as he slowly walked through the house, looking for some sign of life – worry and fear starting to grow. The fridge is nearly empty – holding only a box of baking soda, a bottle of Tabasco sauce and two containers of biscuits. The freezer holds even less – a half a pound of ground beef and an overflowing ice cube tray. It was as if the man had just uprooted almost his entire life and was gone. Leaving the kitchen, the angel slowly walked upstairs to the bedrooms – but the rooms there were just as deserted as the ones below. The bed in the master bedroom is unmade, but other than that, there is nothing but dust and Castiel's own footfalls.

Moving the curtain aside, he looked down into the backyard, where grass was being overrun with weeds and several limbs from the tall trees lay nearly buried in the spring growth. This was all wrong, he didn't think that Chuck would neglect his own yard in such a manner. The branches were what unnerved him more than the dust. If they'd fallen in a spring thunderstorm, they would still have a green look to them – but the severed limbs were bare. They had fallen in an ice storm – and there hadn't been an ice storm in this town since _February._ Going back downstairs, he looked around the dust filled room again, searching for anything he may have missed. Going over to the desk, he found several bound printouts, just as dusty as everything else. Scanning through them, he saw that they're further work of the Winchester Gospel. The titles tell him only a little – _Changing Channels, Good God Y'All, The Real Ghostbusters, Abandon All Hope_ and at the bottom – _Dean, Interrupted._

He frowns and picked the last one up, flipping back the title page and scanning the first few pages. He recognized the story almost immediately – it is the story of how he, Dean and Sam went into the woods after the acheri in Kentucky. Page seven brought the fog that separated them all and as he was about to turn to the next page, the story fell from his hands as he heard what sounded like something falling over in the basement. Retrieving the pages from the floor and replacing them on the desk, Castiel made his way to the second door to in the kitchen and opened it slowly. The whole situation seemed odd as he saw there was a light on. Quietly, almost tentatively, he made his way down the steps, expecting to find a rat scurrying along the floor or perhaps a stray cat. “Hello?” His voice echoed in the still house as he set his feet on the floor and turned towards the light.

An Enochian sigil, the like of which Castiel had never seen before was painted into the wall in a lurid shade of red. It was more than just one – he scanned it, and saw that there, unless he missed his guess, at least sixty-six separate markings and from the faint scent in the air, he can tell that they were made with the blood of neither a human or an angel – but of a calf. One person sat in a chair, his back to Castiel and next to him stood a small girl with dark hair.

“Hello, Castiel.” Chuck's voice is strained, as if he had been weeping for a long time. 

“Chuck... what...” His voice is cut off as the girl turns her head towards him. Fear slams into his very being faster than he can process the thought. The girl – is _Michael_.

“Hello, little brother.” Michael smiles at him – it is both horrifying and at the same time glorious to see the most powerful angel in the entire Host of Heaven looking at him through the eyes a child Castiel estimates not to be any older than nine. It is hard to tell if the look is meant to be kind or cruel – one never knew with the Archangel – but still, when he steels himself to meet his superior's superior in the eyes, the look appears genuine.

“Michael.” He swallows, expecting death.

“Why would he kill you, Castiel?” Chuck lets out a soft breath and slowly turns to look at him. “I am sorry.” 

Castiel tilted his head to the side, thoroughly confused. The prophet's face is tear stained and his eyes are rimmed in red, making him look miserable. “I do not understand.” 

Chuck stood and came over to him, setting a hand on his shoulder, much like he had right before Raphael had smitted him, only this time, there is no hesitancy in his touch, only certainty and compassion. “I know you don't.” He shifted his gaze back to Michael for a half second. “I am sorry that I sent you running around in circles for so long...” He turned back and looked directly into Castiel's eyes. “I am, however, very, very proud of you, my son.”

Castiel felt the color drain from his face, unsure of if he should kneel or do something. In all the times he imagined finding God, he never once planned on what he would do if he actually _found_ him. Of all the things he thought of saying, of all his expectations – all of it – all of it is gone and he is left dumbfounded and feeling foolish. “I...”

“It is all right.” Chuck set a hand on Castiel's cheek and smiled. “Everything is going to be just fine.” He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “I knew what you wanted, even before you did.” He looked over at Michael. “Would you please give us a few minutes, Michael?”

“Of course.” The archangel smiled – a genuine smile that showed no hint of treachery and then vanished. 

Castiel was still trying to find his voice – he'd been in this house a year ago – almost exactly a year ago and told Dean that this man was a prophet of the Lord. How was...how could he have missed such a thing? It seemed to unfathomable to think that his Father would come down from Heaven and disguise himself as such. 

“You're still very confused.” Chuck stepped away from him and started to walk back towards the chair. “It's understandable.” He sighed. “I hoped that maybe – just _maybe_ Lucifer would have changed after his long imprisonment – that he would somehow... I don't like to think any of my children as lost causes – but angels... aren't like humans. Angels are almost impossible to change. The perfection makes the imperfection.”

“Lucifer has been returned to his prison?” Castiel felt fairly foolish as he asked the question.

“For a few more centuries, at least.” He sighed. “But there is much work to be done before such a time comes again... mankind deserves to get a little further along than they have.” He winced and set a hand against the back of the chair. “Several months ago... Lucifer set out to trap Sam in those woods in Kentucky... and trick him into saying yes. Michael found out before hand... and changed the course. It wasn't supposed to be Dean who fell in that fog – but Sam.”

“Is Lucifer responsible for Dean's amnesia?”

“No, Michael is.” He held up a hand to stop Castiel from coming towards him. “Michael had thought of trapping Dean in a matter similar to Lucifer's... but then realized that would make him no better than his brother.” Chuck took a deep breath. “So instead, he created a new life for Dean... just to see where it would go.”

Castiel frowned. “But that was five months ago, surely Michael knew it was dangerous...”

“Oh he knew it was dangerous...” Chuck shook his head. “But he was protecting Dean all the while – and he knew you were looking for him. He knew you had given up your search for me and started looking for Dean instead.” He drew away from the chair and came back over to Castiel. “For that, I thank you.” He pulled him into a hug and that was the moment when Castiel's knees finally gave out from under him. The weight against Chuck was almost negligible, as if the angel weighed no more than a golden retriever. He held him tighter, feeling the tears staring to prick the corners of his eyes again. “You have done _exactly_ what I have asked of you and of all the angels. At the risk of your own existence, at the risk of your own grace – of your _everything_. No one else has done so – not even Michael. I am not just grateful for what you have done, you, Castiel.. have made me very, very, proud.”

The words from his Father are among the most beautiful Castiel had ever heard and he never would have thought he would hear such words – he had never had such praise lauded upon him. He knew that he was starting to cry, another one of those human emotions he was developing and trying to understand already beginning to overwhelm him – in truth, he wasn't sure what the emotion he was feeling was called.

“Joy.” Chuck whispered against his ear. “The emotion your feeling is called joy, my son.” He hugged him tighter once more before pulling away, setting Castiel back on his feet. “I must return home.” He gave a very wry sort of smile. “I sent Gabriel to break the news to Zachariah...” Here, he smirked. “Somehow, I don't think he's going to like that very much.”

Castiel nodded – his superior would most likely be livid – he could almost picture Zachariah's reaction. Of course, from what he knew of Gabriel, the whole incident could prove to be highly amusing in a very twisted way. “What would you have me do?”

Chuck gave him a sad smile and squeezed his shoulder again. “It's not time for you to come home... not yet.” He glanced to the side. “Michael.” All it took was the word and the archangel reappeared, as if he had gone away no further than the upstairs, but given the fact that the child-vessel was finishing an ice cream cone – another strange image for Castiel to file away – he had a feeling it was much further.

“Yes?” Michael swallowed the last of the cone. 

“That taste good?” Chuck asked, looking highly amused.

“Very much so...” He licked one of his fingers, completely nonchalant. “Gabriel suggested I try ice cream while I was here... though I disagree with him – butter pecan is _much_ better than rocky road.” He looked over at Castiel. “You should try it too.”

“To each his own, Michael.” Chuck smiled in response. “I am returning home – I have been away to long. Would you mind...” He made a small gesture towards Castiel.

“Of course.” He rocked back on his heels. “What about the house?”

“Don't worry. That will be taken care of as well.” He ruffled the hair of the small vessel the archangel was in before vanishing.

Castiel was still overcome with emotion as his Father vanished and this time he sank down to the floor, still trying to take everything in. What was he to do now? If it was not time for him to come home, what was he to do? Was he being abandoned while all the other angels went home? His mind seemed to snap back into focus as he heard Michael coming towards him. Dean. He had to help Dean get his memory back because even with the Apocalypse being over, he still had things he wanted to do – things he probably felt he needed to do. _You know, saving people, hunting things – the family business._ He felt two small hands lift his face and he looked up at Michael.

“You are not being abandoned, Castiel.” He smiled. “I am afraid that there is still work to be done.” 

“I am not sure I am worthy of any task.” Castiel can remember a similar situation to this – when he had possessed Claire Novak and Jimmy had pleaded for him to spare his daughter.

“There is no other angel capable of the task Heaven is asking of you.” Michael's face turned serious. “We were not able to bring about paradise on Earth because we do not understand mankind. None of us are even close to understanding even a millionth of what you have begun to...”

“I am uncertain of what you are asking of me, Michael.” Castiel feels strangely warm, as if his waning grace is slowly starting to spark into life again.

“Humans live only a finite number of years only because their bodies are incapable of immortality – naturally, at least.” He backed away, pulling Castiel to his feet. “But their souls, like our true forms, are immortal. Their souls are much stronger than ours – their character, their will, their emotions – all of these are what make humans strong and we, as angels, know nothing of how it is to be human. With all their strengths and weaknesses, we are not able to understand their complexity. We are singular in our resolve... we must not be this way any longer.” He took a deep breath. “We ask consent of our vessels and so many of us promptly forget that we are merely borrowing what rightfully belongs to someone else. If we do not understand humans, how are we every going to able to interact with them as our Father wants?”

“You would have me spy on mankind?” Castiel frowned, this was starting to sound far to devious. 

“No, Castiel. There is no deception in this. I have only walked this earth a few months – but I can see that you and Gabriel are both right. These humans are better than us... we need to understand them better than we currently do... Gabriel has brought only some of the knowledge... but it is always good to have several different opinions. You also must learn from mankind.” He smiled. “So that others can learn of mankind's ways.” Michael rested his head against Castiel's. “Besides, these past five months have shown me that separating you and Dean was cruel... and I do not wish to be so heartless as to keep you apart until his death...which, before you ask – is quite aways away.”

“I am to learn what it is to be human, then?”

“Yes. Learning without the burden or agony of falling from Heaven's grace completely. We can never hope to know everything, Castiel. But right now, what we know is next to nothing... which is deplorable, considering how long mankind has existed. For that, we should all be humbled.”

Castiel swallowed. “But I have done things...”

“We have all done things that we felt were right at the time. If we had understood mankind better, maybe then Zachariah would have understood why Dean told him no. I would have understood why.” The archangel looked rather ashamed. “You should head back to South Dakota. It is much later than you think it is... the Winchesters and Bobby Singer will start to worry.”

The angel slowly nodded. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Michael smiled. “Make sure you get plenty of rest.” He turned and was gone with a fluttering of wings, leaving Castiel standing alone. Still trying to process all that had happened this afternoon, he too, turned and vanished.

** 

Dean lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. Sam had told him a whole mountain of information about his past – what he had to assume _was_ his past, because as scary as it sounded, it seemed vaguely familiar. The younger man - _he's your brother, Dean. Start referring to him as your brother –_ had slowly started to fill in some of the gaps that had plagued his mind the past few months. Their parents, as he assumed, were dead – their mom died when he was four and their dad had died when he was twenty-seven. Both of them had been killed by the same demon – a demon he, Dean, had killed a year after their father died. They had one other sibling, a half-brother named Adam – he was also dead. Learning that most of the people who he knew and were a part of his family were dead made something else make sense: why no one had seemed to be looking for him. The only ones who had been looking were Sam, Bobby and Cas.

He rolled over, tucking the pillow under his chin. The rest of the news wasn't any better. Dean was still trying to process the fact that monsters were real and that he and his brother fought them. When Sam had told him that.. two days ago? He'd not believed it – but now, now just like everything else, he was _starting_ to believe it. The fact that he'd been able to pick up every single gun in the arsenal that was in the trunk of that black Impala and instantly know how to clean, repair and fire said weapon only added to it. Of course, Sam was still acting like Dean was an invalid – he was seriously considering clocking him the next time Sam treated him like he was helpless. He was actually surprised Sam hadn't dialed the phone for him when Dean had called Larkspur and told them he wasn't going to be able to take the shipment to San Fransisco – he told his boss that he was having more and more memory flashbacks and said the last thing he wanted to do was have one while driving through a dangerous patch of road. Dying in an inferno in the Donner Pass rated pretty high on ways Dean _didn't_ want to die. His boss had been very understanding – and asked him to please call back when he was feeling better.

Dean kept his breathing even as he heard the door of his room groan open. It was Sam, no doubt, probably checking to see if he'd forgotten how to breathe, or something. A few moments later, he heard the door shut and instinct told him that whoever had opened the door – was still in the room. Doing his best to feign sleep, he didn't react as he heard a rustling sound – he even managed to keep calm as he felt a shift of weight on the mattress as the someone sat down on the bed. The hand that brushed his forehead, however, was a little to soft to belong to Sam. It was then that his breath hitched as the he felt the thumb of the hand brush against his ear. _I'm dreaming again..._

“You're not dreaming, Dean.” Castiel replied. 

“Cas?” Dean opened his eyes, confused.

“I promised you last night I would be here when you woke up.” The Dean Castiel knows would inevitability have a smart mouthed retort to such a statement and he finds himself bracing for it, reminding himself not to be offended.

“That wasn't a dream either?” Dean sat up, frowning. Just how much of what he'd experienced in the last twenty-four hours was real and how much of it was dream?

“You remember that?” 

Dean snorted in reply. “Why is it everyone around here thinks I've got Alzheimer's on top of amnesia?”

“My apologies.” He swallowed and looked away. “I should not have done what I did.”

“What, kissed me?” 

“You were unaware of what you were doing at the time and I took advantage of that. It was not right.” Castiel feels the strong urge to get up and leave the room – another one of the emotions – _embarrassment –_ was starting to get to him.

“Are you always this uptight?” 

Castiel feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth – he can hear his Dean in that statement. “You...you were trying to get me to... not be so uptight before the accident.” 

Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to comprehend this. “Are you upset that you kissed me or are you just shocked that I'm not angry about you kissing me?”

“I...” Castiel looked down at his hands, the smile still threatening to make an appearance. “I've missed you, Dean. In more ways than one...” He feels his ears grow warm, a sure sign that he's starting to become even more embarrassed. His next words were cut off, however, as he felt one of Dean's hand slide up his arm and rest on his shoulder, while the other was put against his cheek. That hand slowly started to trace the planes and contours of his face and he kept his eyes on Dean as the other man closed his eyes, concentrating. 

Dean wasn't entirely sure of what he was doing – but at least Cas had stopped talking. Silence would probably help him some at this time. He thought back to the dream he'd had several nights ago – that very intense, very amazing dream. He'd not seen his lover's face, not seen any details of any kind – but he'd felt things. There was a patch of stubble irritating the palm of his hand as he ran it across Cas's cheek, the memory of the dream starting to become more and more clear. His breath hitched in his throat as other details, things that _hadn't_ been in the dream came into focus. The bad decor of the motel – it'd been done in some ugly-ass orange and brown theme that was a bad attempt at southwestern. Next came the smell – not of sweat and sex, but an oddly placed whiff of onions and apples. Things were tumbling together about that dream... _no, it wasn't a dream...it couldn't have been..._ more things clicking into place – jackets thrown over a chair, two pairs of shoes lying on the floor – one sensible black, the other a pair of boots. His breath hitched in his throat as Cas's eyes opened and suddenly _that_ detail slammed into place will all the strength of hurricane. “It... it was real, wasn't it?”

Castiel swallowed, knowing what had just happened in Dean's mind – he knew he hadn't put the sort of detail in that shared memory the other night. “Very.” In the dark, he can see that his lower lip is trembling ever-so-slightly and that tears are starting to form in the corners of his eyes. 

“What happened out in those woods, Cas?” It's not the first time Dean's asked that question – but it is the first time that he's said it out loud.

“I am not entirely certain.” He kissed the man's forehead. “I do know, however, that you are back where you belong.” He knows it will be a long time before he tells Dean about what Michael had done, about the possibility that the Mayfleets may not even be real, but for now, all he can do is pull Dean into a comforting hug, rubbing his back in lazy circles with one hand, the other resting on the back of his head. It's strange, but knowing now that they can take their time in getting Dean back to being Dean, it gives him an odd sense of peace. “We'll figure it out. We have plenty of time.”

“I thought the world was in danger of ending.” Dean's voice is muffled, as he's decided that Castiel's shoulder is rather comfortable.

“Not this century.” Castiel smiled, holding Dean a little tighter. “It's just one less nightmare we have to deal with.” He kissed his temple. “You do, however, need your rest.”

“So do you.” Dean was a little hesitant about asking Castiel to stay in the room with him – which is rather odd, considering the angel is actually the one who initiated this conversation, so it's not like he expects 'no' as a reply.

“I don't sleep, Dean.” Castiel pulled away from him, very reluctantly and then helped Dean get settled back under the covers. 

“Yes, you do.” Dean's not sure how he knew that. “You've at least napped, I know that.”

Castiel knows it's to late for an argument, and besides, the man is right – he _has_ dozed a little every now and then. “You have to go to sleep first.” He can't believe he's talking to Dean like he's four years old. 

“I'm not objecting.” Dean tucked the pillow back under his chin, closing his eyes. “And if you want to stay in here, I don't mind. Just don't hog the covers.”

Castiel smiles and brushes his hand through Dean's hair one more time. “I don't think that will be a problem.”

**

Sam woke up the next morning to the smell of something wonderful baking in the oven. It had been nearly six years since he woke up to that sort of smell... not since he lived with Jessica. He made his way down the hall, noting that the door to Dean's room was still closed and went downstairs into the kitchen and received what had to be the greatest surprises in recent memory. It wasn't Bobby who was making breakfast, but _Dean_. He blinked once or twice, taking in the whole scene in the kitchen. His brother, who, six months ago couldn't cook anything more complicated than Hamburger Helper, was making what looked to be a full spread of breakfast, complete with eggs, bacon, fried potatoes and _cinnamon rolls_ – the last of which was currently cooling on the counter. “Uh... good morning.”

“Morning, Sam.” Dean looked over his shoulder. “Something wrong?”

“Try... everything? Since when do you cook?”

“Since the middle of January.” He replied. “Coffee's ready.” He nodded towards the pot. “I'm sorry, I wasn't sure what kind of eggs everyone liked best, so I just went with scrambled.”

He retrieved a mug from the cupboard and poured himself some of the coffee. Apparently his brother hadn't forgotten how to make a good pot of the stuff – but the fact that Dean could cook now... it was both unsettling and amusing at the same time. “How did you sleep?”

“Not bad.” Dean turned the potatoes over. “Yourself?”

“Pretty.... pretty good.” He made a note to himself that he was going to get to the library today – it was high time he did some research on the type of amnesia that Dean had – although he had to wonder if any of the changes he saw in his brother would remain even after his memory was back. If one of them knew how to cook, well hell – what else had his brother learned while he was off being normal?

The sound of footsteps running down the stairs caused both of them to turn as Cas came into the kitchen, looking worried. “Sam...” He slowly took in the rest of the room, the panic on his face fading rapidly. 

“Morning Cas.” Dean said, turning back to the stove. “Breakfast should be ready in about five minutes.”

“Sam, is he cooking?” 

“He says he learned how to do it in January.” Sam took another sip of coffee. “Judging from the smell, I'd say he's probably not half bad at it.” He set his mug down. “I'll set the table...” His next words were cut off by a yowl as Bluebeard raced into the kitchen at the sound of a bellow – ten seconds later, Bobby stormed into the kitchen, his face red. 

“Dean, keep that blasted animal away from me!” 

Dean looked down at the cat that had taken up residence at his feet. “Sorry about that... I didn't know he was in your room.” He frowned. “Weren't you in a wheelchair yesterday? Honestly, it's not going to help my memory any if you three can't keep up a constancy in your behavior.” He went back to the pans on the stove, but not before taking a piece of bacon and dropping it down for the cat.

The realization hit Bobby and a fraction of a second later, he turned to Castiel. “Did you do this?”

Castiel shook his head. “No.” He frowned. “Is this a problem?”

“No...” The old hunter suddenly realized something else. “Dean's cooking?”

“Yeah...” Sam poured two more cups of coffee, handing one to Castiel and the other to Bobby. 

“Well, this day's barely started and it's already full of surprises.” Bobby made his way over to the table and sat down. “Next thing you know Sam, the angel's going to tell us the Apocalypse has been called off for this century.”

Castiel titled his head to the side, frowning. “Who told you, Bobby?”

For a full minute there was no noise in the kitchen save for the scraping of pans and the clatter of dishes as Dean put the meal on the table. Sam sank down in a chair opposite of Bobby, looking stunned. “Are... are you serious, Cas?”

“Why would I lie about something like this?” He took a sip from his mug.

“Sam, when you go into town today, make sure you pick up a Power-ball ticket. That jackpot is up to a hundred million last I checked and with the way this day is going...” Bobby said as Dean added salt, pepper and a bottle of ketchup to the table. 

“I've already got one of those in my wallet.” Dean remarked as he got his own coffee cup. “Go ahead and sit down, Cas.”

Castiel slid into the third chair at the table, knowing that Dean wouldn't remember that angels didn't eat and wasn't going to bother with reminding him when his stomach actually rumbled almost audibly. Looking around, he saw that none of the others had noticed – and besides, if the food tasted anything liked it smelled, it should be good. He didn't think that now was a time to bring up the impossible odds at winning the lottery, besides, given the fact that he just realized he'd discovered what hunger was – this could be the sort of day anything could happen.

He just hoped Gabriel didn't turn Zachariah into a flying pig and send him for a trip across Sioux Falls. At least, not until Castiel learned how to use a camera.


End file.
